by J F Straker
‘Just a graze,’ Johnny said. He managed to summon up a smile. ‘And don’t fret about the letter, love. It was all right to bring it. Maybe it’ll get these creeps off our backs for a while. Where is it?’
‘Here,’ Lester said, producing it from his pocket. ‘I took the liberty of opening it. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m getting used to your crudities. Opening other people’s mail, petty thievery, yesterday’s handkerchief — the lot. No doubt you come from a broken home. As for Stan —’ Johnny’s voice hardened. He found it difficult to be sarcastic about Stan. ‘From the way he pongs he must have crawled out of a cesspit.’
‘Why, you —!’
Stan started forward. Lester put out a restraining hand. ‘Petty?’ he said. ‘You call thirty thousand quid petty?’
‘I was referring to the three quid you nicked from my wallet yesterday.’
‘Oh, that!’ Lester clicked his tongue. ‘I take it as it comes. Do you want me to read you this letter?’
Johnny shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’
‘Maybe I’d better condense it. It’s on the long side — I wouldn’t want to bore you. But it seems you were to be the blue-eyed boy who was to bring all us villains together. He’s given you our names and addresses. And what do you know? He suggests we meet here, at the club.’
‘Upstairs, I hope,’ Johnny said. ‘Still, it’s quite a coincidence.’
‘Yes. He says you are to please yourself about taking a cut, but he doesn’t advise it. It did him no good, he says, and he hopes it’ll be the same with us.’ Lester grimaced. ‘Stupid bastard.’
‘You know, I rather agree with him,’ Johnny said. ‘That all?’
‘No. He says that, you being an ex-cop, you’ll probably want to bring in the law. That’s fine with him, he says, but you’re to hold them back until me and Obi and Alice and Bagiotti have dug up the gear. Otherwise it’s likely to stay buried, he says, because none of us is going to tell the law where to look for it.’ Lester grinned. ‘He’s dead right there. What’s more, the law couldn’t have touched us. Not just for looking. Unless they caught us in possession they couldn’t even breathe on us.’
‘They could touch you for murder,’ Johnny said.
‘Ah! Now you’re being personal.’ Lester shook his head. ‘I don’t like that. But here’s the pay-off. Obi’s letter just said “dig”, eh? Well, this tells us where: twenty paces to the right of the track, in line with the three trees, and then six off to the left.’ He sighed prodigiously. ‘Sorry we roughed you up for nothing. But you see how it was. We had to know. No hard feelings, eh?’
‘None at all,’ Johnny said. ‘I enjoyed it. I’m sure Miss Frazer did too.’
Lester grinned. ‘That’s what I thought. Well, now for action. On your feet, Chipper. We’re off to get us some gold.’ Chipper got up slowly.
‘What about this lot?’ Stan asked.
Before Lester could answer, Jasmine turned on him. ‘You’re not leaving Mr Inch like that,’ she said fiercely. ‘His head’s real bad. You’ve got to do something about it.’
‘Stan here has already done it,’ Lester said. ‘Tie her up, you two.’
They tied her up. It was not a simple operation. Jasmine protested violently, lashing out with her fists when they tried to grab her, and with her feet when they had succeeded in tying her wrists. Stan’s fluent obscenity suggested her aim was good.
‘Regular bundle of fun,’ Lester said, when they had finished the tying and had propped her against a wall. He turned to consider the prostrate Cooke. Then, apparently satisfied, he moved to the door. ‘O.K., boys. Let’s blow.’
They blew, locking the door behind them. Johnny listened to their vanishing footsteps. Though his wrists and ankles hurt like hell, his head had become surprisingly free from pain. It felt numb, light. Almost cheerfully, he said, ‘You know, somehow I don’t think I’m going to miss them.’
‘Nor me,’ Jasmine panted. Unresigned to constraint, she was struggling to free herself. Balloon-like breasts wobbled as she contorted her torso, the mini-skirt revealing most of her body stocking. ‘Brutes, that’s what they are. I mean, leaving us like this, and you with your poor head.’ There was a momentary pause in her exertions. ‘Phew! It’s hot, isn’t it? How long do you think they’ll keep us here, Mr Inch?’
‘Depends on how long it takes them to unearth the bullion.’ There was no need to alarm her with other possibilities. ‘Incidentally, the lady on your left is Polly Frazer.’
‘We’ve met,’ Jasmine said. She nodded at Polly, and Polly smiled weakly back. Despite his anxiety, Johnny wanted to laugh. Two women sitting in a cellar with their hands and feet tied, acknowledging a formal introduction! But neither Jasmine nor Polly was attuned to unconscious humour. Jasmine had been casting curious glances at the recumbent Cooke. Now she said, ‘Who’s that, Mr Inch?’
‘Basil Cooke.’ Had he mentioned Cooke to her? He couldn’t remember.
‘Oh!’ She looked puzzled. ‘What’s he doing there? Is he drunk?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. He’s a prisoner like ourselves — except that he’s had more of the treatment.’
‘Poor man. But how about us, Mr Inch? We can’t just sit here, can we? There must be something we can do.’ She gazed about her. ‘Look! Those bottles. We could cut the ropes with a bit of broken glass. I’ve seen them do it on the telly.’
‘I doubt if it’s as simple as it looks,’ Johnny said. Even if they managed to free themselves from the cord there was still the problem of the locked door. But first things first. ‘Let’s try the old-fashioned finger method.’
It was agony pushing himself across the floor on his rump, but he made it. Back to back with Jasmine, he struggled to untie her wrists. But Stan apparently knew his knots, and it did not take Johnny long to realize that this particular knot, tied on the inside of the girl’s wrists, was beyond the capability of a man with his own hands tied and no view of what he was trying to do. It was a relief when he stopped. The abortive operation had forced the cord deeper into the raw flesh of his wrists.
‘I’ll try again later,’ he said. ‘At least we’re not pushed for time. It’ll be hours before they’re back.’
‘Let me try,’ Polly said. ‘Your wrists are bleeding.’
‘They feel a bit raw,’ he admitted. He swivelled to face her, and smiled. He could look at her now without embarrassment, for by dint of persistent wriggling she had somehow managed to cover her bosom. ‘But you wouldn’t be very successful stuck in that chair. Can you get up?’
‘I’ll try.’
While she tried he looked round the room, seeking something that might promise a solution to the dilemma. Each time his gaze ranged the outer wall it lit on the motionless figure on the mattress, and each time it hesitated before moving on. Cooke’s hands were free; if only Cooke were conscious and could use them! But Cooke wasn’t conscious. He could even be dead. Chipper had said he was still breathing. But that had been ages back, when they had first entered the cellar. No-one had bothered to inspect him since. He might not be breathing now.
Acting on impulsive curiosity, Johnny propelled himself over to the mattress. It was another painful journey. Cooke lay partly on his stomach, partly on his side, his knees bent. The collar of his gabardine was up, obscuring his face. It was not until Johnny bent his own head to the level of the mattress that he saw the slashed cheeks and the dried blood, the torn lips and the bruises round the swollen eyelids.
‘Jesus O’Grady!’ he exclaimed. ‘They’ve made a proper mess of the poor devil’s face. I wonder what they did to the rest of him.’
‘He’s not dead, is he?’ Jasmine asked.
Johnny lifted his feet on to the mattress and prodded gently at the man’s knees. There was no apparent reaction. He prodded again, less gently. Was he mistaken, or had the eyelids flickered? Again he prodded. This time there could be no doubt. There had not only been movement. From between the torn lips
had come a faint, whistling groan.
‘Get over here, you two,’ he said excitedly. ‘I think he’s coming round.’
Despite her bulk, Jasmine manoeuvred herself across the floor with commendable agility — rump to heels, stretch, rump to heels — her bosom bouncing generously. By the time the journey was completed her cheeks were a bright pink, partly from exertion, partly from embarrassment; the mini-skirt had ridden up the full length of her thighs, and she was helpless to adjust it. Polly had managed to lift herself from the chair; now she landed on the floor with a thud that jarred her spine. She sat for a few moments, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. When she moved, her gait was more leisurely and more decorous than Jasmine’s. She had kicked off her shoes, and travelled backward, digging her heels into the rough stone to obtain leverage.
Johnny was uncertain whether it was medically correct to shake the man out of his coma. But, correct or not, this was an emergency, and he worked hard with his feet. The results were not encouraging: an occasional twitch, an occasional groan, but no more. Try talking to him, Polly suggested. No, Johnny said, you try. When he and I last met we were on distinctly unfriendly terms; if he should recognize my voice he might prefer to remain withdrawn. And if he doesn’t recognize it he might mistake me for one of his captors — with the same result.
‘What shall I say?’
‘Just keep telling him to wake up, that you’re a friend, that you’re here to help.’
‘I thought we wanted him to help us,’ Jasmine said.
‘It comes to the same thing.’ What a time to quibble over the niceties of phraseology! ‘But you’ll have to get closer than that, Polly. Otherwise you’ll have to shout, and that might frighten his subconscious into shutting you out. Can you get your mouth against his ear, and use a loud whisper?’
‘I’ll try.’
Getting on to the mattress was the hardest part of the operation. Once there, she swivelled round and fell flat, to lie stretched against the man’s back. Jasmine flushed and politely looked away, but Polly seemed unconscious or unconcerned that her bosom was once more uncovered. Edging on to her side, she lifted her head and began to plead as Johnny had suggested.
It was more effective than he had dared to hope. Perhaps the impact of her body on the mattress, coming on top of Johnny’s constant nudging, had jolted the man into semi-consciousness, for almost immediately he groaned and stirred. Johnny had moved so that he was out of Cooke’s line of vision, but he saw the swollen eyelids lift, flicker, and close, watched the battered lips move soundlessly. Jasmine was on the other side of the man to Polly, and she too saw the movement. As Polly paused for breath, Jasmine said excitedly, ‘Please, Mr Cooke, wake up! Please, please! It’s terribly urgent.’
Cooke’s right arm lifted slowly and awkwardly, to rest a trembling hand on his hip. His frame shuddered, the tip of his tongue moved slowly round the unfamiliar contours of his lips. The words came haltingly.
‘Water. Please, water.’
Polly looked at Johnny. He shrugged. The room was hot, they were all thirsty. Cooke’s need was greater than theirs, but they could not satisfy it.
‘I’m sorry,’ Polly said. ‘Listen, Mr Cooke. We’re prisoners like you, and we can’t get you any water because the men have tied our hands and feet. But they’ve gone now. If you could manage to untie one of us we might be able to help you. So try, please.’
Cooke lifted the hand from his hip, let it tremble in space, and then dropped it. A spasm shook his body. His eyes opened, narrow slits between the swollen lids.
‘My side,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It hurts.’ He was looking directly at Jasmine. ‘They kicked me.’ He tried to raise himself with his other arm, gave a faint whimper of pain, and fell back. ‘Oh, God!’
Again Polly looked at Johnny. He breathed words at her, gesticulating with his head. When at last she understood she nodded.
‘Do you think you could manage to roll on to your back?’ she said. Keeping her head up without support made her neck ache. ‘It might be less painful.’
He did not answer. Still staring at Jasmine, he said, ‘Who — who are you? What do you want?’
‘We’re prisoners, Mr Cooke,’ she said. ‘Like you. Only they’ve tied our hands and feet. We want you to untie them. Then we can help you.’ She nearly overbalanced in her eagerness to get close, to make sure he heard and understood. ‘Please try.’
His response was to close his eyes. Polly wriggled into a sitting position, swung her legs off the mattress so that her back was towards him, felt for the sleeve of his gaberdine, and tugged gently. Cooke did not budge. Leaning forward, she lifted her hands and moved them up the arm to his shoulder. Again she tugged, and again he did not budge. She turned her head to look inquiringly at Johnny, and he nodded. Taking a firm grip on the cloth, she tugged again, harder this time, jerking her body forward to add power to her hands. Cooke rolled towards her, and screamed shrilly as his side came in sudden contact with her back. She eased herself off the mattress so that her body no longer supported him, and he slid on to his back and lay there groaning and gasping.
Polly turned to look at him. The sight of his battered face made her feel sick. The blood had dried, but sweat ran in rivulets down his cheeks and chin, turning faintly pink as it channelled its way through the dried blood. Pity suggested she should not force him further. But he needed help even more than they did, and help could not come until they were free.
She leaned back and rested her hands on his stomach. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Untie me. Then we can help you.’
He opened his eyes, lifted his head slightly, then let it sink back. His hands came up slowly, felt for her wrists, and began to fumble at the cord. But with his head down on the mattress he was unable to see what he was doing, and at a sign from Johnny Jasmine manoeuvred herself to sit with her back to his head. Leaning back, she felt for it and lifted it gently. His hair was caked with blood, but he gave no indication of pain at the contact.
He had strong-looking hands, with long narrow fingers that should have made light of the task. Now they worked feebly and hesitantly, their strength sapped. Johnny watched impatiently as their grip kept slipping. He’s not going to make it, he thought. When the first loose end escaped the knot he nearly whooped with excitement.
‘I’m getting cramp,’ Jasmine said.
Johnny glowered at her. ‘Don’t you dare!’ he mouthed.
Cooke took a rest. His breathing was becoming more irregular, and Johnny wondered if the exertion had been too much for him, if he were about to pass out again. It was a relief when the fingers got moving. Now they worked more surely, so that the cord slid from its confining bonds more rapidly. When the final loop came loose and slid from Polly’s hands, Johnny could no longer contain his exultation. ‘Bravo!’ he said hoarsely. ‘Bloody well done!’
Cooke shuddered, and let his hands fall to his sides. Jasmine lowered his head to the mattress and took her hands away. Polly rubbed her wrists, restoring the circulation, and bent to undo the knot at her feet. She stood up, took a few tentative steps and, still with her back to the others, fastened the buttons of her cardigan.
‘Heavens!’ she said, turning. ‘You’ve no idea how good it feels. To be free, I mean. Absolute bliss.’
‘Let me discover it for myself,’ Johnny pleaded.
Half way through untying his wrists the busy fingers paused. ‘Damn!’ she said. ‘I’ve broken a nail.’ Buoyed with new hope, Johnny laughed. As such a moment, to bother about a broken fingernail!
His hands free, he loosened his ankles. The flesh at his wrists was raw, and when he plucked gingerly at his socks he found that in places they had stuck to his ankles. He untied Jasmine, and the three of them trotted happily round the cellar, getting the stiffness out of their limbs. As the blood started to circulate freely Johnny felt pain returning. Gingerly he fingered his scalp. It was sore, and particularly sore above his left ear.
He was probing for the actual wound when Polly st
opped. She said, ‘What are we getting so worked up about? We’re still prisoners, aren’t we? The door’s locked.’
9
‘We can’t bust it open,’ Johnny said. ‘That’s for sure. It’s solid, and it opens inward.’
He came away from the door and wandered disconsolately round the cellar, disturbing the piles of rubbish with his feet, looking for something, anything, that might conceivably be used as an instrument for escape. Nothing seemed to offer itself. There was not even a poker for the stove. When he mentioned this to the girls, Jasmine said she had seen the implements in a bucket outside the door. She too was searching the rubbish — for wire, she said, when Johnny asked; he could pick the lock with it, couldn’t he? She had seen that too on the telly. Johnny said impatiently that he had had no experience of picking locks. Something like a metal rod would be more practical. If he couldn’t force the lock with it, he could heat it in the stove and perhaps burn a way through one of the door-panels.
Cooke’s breathing had become more stertorous; he appeared to have relapsed into a coma. Polly was doing what she could to make him comfortable, and it was seeing her place one of Chipper’s tattered cushions under the man’s head that gave Johnny the germ of an idea. He went over to the mattress and began to gather up the spilled flock.
‘What’s that for?’ Jasmine asked.
‘We’re going to have a bonfire,’ Johnny said. ‘Come and help.’
‘But it’s hot enough already, Mr Inch,’ she protested. ‘And won’t it be dangerous? I mean, you could burn the place down.’
‘And us with it,’ Polly said. ‘What’s the idea, Johnny?’
‘This must be the basement to the club.’ He was wrapping the flock in a piece of sacking, forming it into a rough sausage. ‘If we can make enough smoke to penetrate upstairs, someone is going to investigate. That could be our moment. If they don’t know we’re here, so much the better; we can surprise them. But they must know, I think; Jill Porter and her husband are almost certainly in the plot. Only they’ll expect to find us trussed up, so they won’t be anticipating danger. There may only be one of them — two at the most. We’ll deal with them as they come in.’