Hell Is Too Crowded v5)

by Jack Higgins

On several occasions he had to unhook his crude safety belt as he came to cross girders, but it was only as he moved towards the edge of the dome itself that he experienced any real difficulty.

  The beams curved round, hugging the wall for the last ten feet or so, and there was only an inch or two behind them where he might push one end of the sling. That he would fail to attempt it never really entered his head. He looked down from his perch on a cross beam, down to that tiny patch of light below, and then forced one end of the sling behind the beam and snapped the links into position.

  The first couple of feet weren't too bad, but as the cupola started to curve, his body inclined outwards. He forced his feet hard against the beam and leaned his weight against the sling. Inch by painful inch he moved up until his body was seemingly arched out in a bow and he knew that if he dropped back his head the merest fraction, he would be able to look straight down at that light below. Once, his foot slipped and the sling creaked ominously. His bowels turned to water. He braced his feet desperately, moved another six inches in one try, and reached up and over the ledge.

  His fingers groped about desperately and finally fastened over a ridge of metal. He hung there, delicately balancing himself with one hand, and with the other, carefully unhooked the sling.

  Just as deliberately, he secured it about his waist. His body started to swing outwards. He reached up with the other hand, doubled his grip on the ridge of metal, and heaved himself up on to the ledge.

  He lay there for a moment, breathing deeply, his hands shaking a little. There was enough room only for his body squeezed against the curved glass panes. The ventilating window was on the other side and he started to crawl cautiously round.

  The ledge was thick with the dust of the years and it drifted down into the gloom, filling his nostrils, making him want to sneeze badly.

  The window was closed. He tried to push it open, but it refused to budge and he took out his wire cutters and severed the wire line which curved round the cupola down to the hall below. He held on to the severed ends and doubled them carefully over the metal catch, and then he pushed the window open and crawled out on to the ledge outside.

  The view was magnificent and the lights of Manningham gleamed through the curtain of rain. A train passed along the track, its whistle echoing through the night and he breathed in the freshness and was filled with a fierce delight.

  The fall pipe was the original Victorian one, square and sturdy and nailed against the wall as firmly as if the builders had intended it to serve the life of the building.

  He went backwards over the edge without a thought, hung for a moment from the square box at the top, and started to descend, his fingers moving easily in the gap between the pipe and the wall.

  It took him little more than a minute to reach the ridge of D Block. There was a car standing outside the gate office in the yard below. A duty officer came out and leaned down to the window. A moment later he signalled and the gates started to open and the car drove out. Probably the governor going to one of his Sunday night bridge parties. Brady grinned involuntarily. The bastard would have something to occupy himself with tomorrow.

  He moved easily along the ridge of the roof, a foot on either side, hands braced on the tiles. The laundry chimney was still warm and he moved to one side of it and peered down.

  He couldn't see a damned thing. He remembered Evans's words about getting this far and still having a better than even chance of breaking his neck, and shivered slightly. He pushed the thought away from him and squatting against the wall, quickly uncoiled the length of manilla.

  In a way, this was the trickiest part of the whole operation. He couldn't tie the rope to the chimney because he needed it to descend the outer wall. He passed one end round and for a moment, stood there, bracing himself, the double strands firmly gripped in both hands, and then he went over the edge.

  His feet slipped against the wet brickwork and he swung against the wall, skinning his knuckles, and his legs bumped painfully against the pipe.

  He sat on it, legs astride, back against the wall, and pulled on one end of the rope and it snaked down through the night. He coiled it quickly, slipped it around his neck, and started to inch his way across the pipe.

  For those remaining minutes, time seemed to come to a stop and all sounds were muted as he moved through the almost total darkness. It seemed like a dream to him when he reached out with one hand, touched rough stone, and looked up to see the edge of the wall, a dark line against the night sky.

  He quickly uncoiled the rope, fastened one end around the pipe and tossed the other over the wall. His fingers hooked into a tiny crack in the stonework and he stood up.

  The edge of the wall was comfortably within his reach. He pulled himself up, carefully negotiated the rusty iron spikes and slithered down the other side. He dangled at the end of the rope for a moment before dropping six feet into wet grass at the top of the railway cutting.

  He was soaked to the skin and as a train approached, he lay down and turned his face into the wet grass, heart pounding painfully. When it had passed into the distance, the sound of it still trembling on the damp air, he got to his feet and slithered down the bank without even a backward glance at the wall behind him.

  As he crossed the track and scrambled up the bank on the other side, a clock struck the half-hour. Twenty minutes from leaving his cell--that's all it had taken. Unless anything went wrong, that gave him twelve hours before first rounds in the morning.

  He went over the low wall into the churchyard and moved cautiously between the gravestones. Light showed in the tall windows and an organ played the opening bars of a hymn. A moment later the congregation joined in, their voices rising into the night.

  He decided that evening service must be just starting. He kept to the wall all the way round to the gate and slipped out.

  It was a poor neighbourhood, the streets lined with dilapidated terrace houses and the shop stood on the corner only twenty or thirty yards away. A van swished by, tyres hissing on the wet asphalt, and then there was silence.

  As he crossed the street, he had the key ready in his hands. His stomach was suddenly hollow and for the first time, he was afraid. Perhaps Evans had been wrong. Perhaps the key wouldn't fit the lock?

  He moved into the dark entrance of the shop, hesitated for the merest fraction of a second, and then bent down. His groping fingers found the lock, the key turned smoothly. A moment later, he was standing inside, his back to the door, shaking with reaction.

  There was a door behind the counter and he moved round quickly and opened it. A small window looked out into a dark backyard and he drew the curtain and switched on the light.

  The room was crammed with stock from floor to ceiling. Most of the stuff looked second-hand and he quickly found a serviceable tweed suit and selected a pair of shoes from a pile in one corner. He found the other things he needed on the shelves.

  There was a basin in one corner with a mirror above it and he quickly examined himself. The face of a stranger looked out at him, skin stretched tightly over the cheekbones, hair plastered against his skull.

  There was only a cold-water tap, but he stripped and washed the dirt from his body, towelling himself down briskly afterwards. The suit fitted as well as could be expected and when he was dressed, he pushed his prison garments under a pile of secondhand clothing in one corner and went back into the shop.

  Evans had been right. There was a float in the till. Three pounds in ten shilling notes and two in silver. He slipped the money into his hip pocket, selected a cheap trench-coat from a rack and found a hat on one of the counters. It was a size too large, but slanted over one ear it looked presentable.

  He moved across to the door and opened it. There was no sound. He locked it gently and walked away along the street at a brisk pace and the sound of the singing from the church faded into the night behind him.

  The rain hammered down and he turned up his collar and paused to get cigarettes and matches from a
machine. The cigarette tasted different, something to do with being free, he decided, and felt suddenly alive for the first time in months.

  One advantage of working on the building extension at the prison had been the fact that it had given him a fairly good idea of the layout of the town. He walked through the empty streets in the general direction of the river, finding Club Twenty-One with surprisingly little difficulty after inquiring the way from a youth waiting on a corner for his girl.

  It was situated in a cobbled street leading down to a barge dock, an old converted house on the corner of an alley. There was a cheap, neon sign over the entrance and the board said members only. Brady pushed open the door and went in.

  The corridor was long and dark with dirty, brown walls and a faintly unpleasant smell. An old, white-haired man in a faded blue uniform edged with tarnished braid, sat in a glass cubicle under the stairs, reading a newspaper.

  He glanced up and pale, watery eyes examined Brady dispassionately. "Members only, sir!" he said in a light colourless voice.

  Brady leaned in at the window and smiled. "I'm only in town for the night. A friend of mine told me that Twenty-One was a good place to have a little fun."

  "You've got to have a sponsor, sir," the old man told him. "That's the law."

  Brady took out a ten shilling note and smoothed it between his fingers. "That's a real pity, especially as I'm only going to be in Manningham tonight."

  The old man coughed and put down his newspaper. He pulled forward a ledger and handed Brady a pen. "Under the circumstances I can't see as how it would do any harm, sir. You'll have to pay the pound membership fee, I'm afraid."

  "Happy to pay it," Brady said. He signed the book in the name of Johnson and gave the old man three ten shilling notes. "Where do I go now?"

  "Top of the stairs sir. Just follow the sound of the music." Brady went up to the first floor quickly. At least he was inside. From now on he would have to play it by ear.

  There was a small cloakroom at one end of the corridor and a young, badly painted girl of no more than sixteen polished her nails and looked bored.

  She took Brady's coat and hat and gave him a ticket. "Is Wilma in tonight?" he said casually.

  The girl nodded. "Having a drink at the bar when I was in five minutes ago."

  The main room of the club had been constructed by knocking down the dividing walls of several smaller rooms. The place was crowded with tables and chairs, leaving only a postage-stamp dance floor and the music came from a large and brassy juke-box in one corner.

  As yet, it was early in the evening, and the place was virtually empty. Two couples danced, another sat at a table, drinking.

  Brady went towards the bar. He could see himself coming in the mirror and the suit looked surprisingly good. The barman leaned against the wall, polishing glasses. He looked like a Cypriot or Greek with crisply curling hair and a pretty-boy face.

  Brady ordered a double brandy to create an impression and looked deliberately across at the woman who sat on the far curve of the bar, reading a magazine. "Ask the lady if she'll have a drink with me," he said.

  "You drinking, Wilma?" the barman asked her.

  She looked up and examined Brady calmly and critically. After a while she smiled. "Why not? I'll have a Pimms, Dino."

  Her hair was a blonde halo and she walked round the bar and stood six feet away from him, a hand on her hip. "Do I know you?"

  Her pose was studied and deliberate, he realized that. She looked as if she didn't have a stitch on under the black sheath dress and was proud of it. Her breasts were sharply pointed and beautifully formed, the stomach faintly rounded, legs long and tapering to delicate ankles.

  She was one hell of a woman--almost perfect It was her face which spoilt the picture; sensual, coarse and vulgar, the eyes cold and calculating and full of cunning. The face of an animal.

  He grinned. "No, this is the first time I've been to Manningham."

  She slid on to the stool beside him, exposing a generous length of leg. "That's funny, I could have sworn I've seen you somewhere before. You're an American, aren't you? We get a lot of Americans in here. There's an Air Force station only a few miles out of town."

  "I've been up here on business from London," he said. "I'm going back in the morning. Thought I might find myself a little fun before leaving."

  "Well, we'll have to see what we can do, won't we?" She finished her drink and slid off the stool. She smoothed the dress over her rounded hips and smiled invitingly. "Like to dance?"

  They threaded their way between the tables as someone put a coin in the juke-box and it started to play a soft dreamy number with a saxophone wailing somewhere in the background.

  Wilma melted into Brady's arms, moulding her supple body into his, and slid an arm up behind his neck. As they moved slowly round the tiny floor, Brady tightened his grip, pulling her against him.

  "Heh, watch it! I break easily!" she said.

  He grinned down at her. "What do you think I'm made of--stone?"

  "You tell me," she said.

  He had been apart from women for so long that it was easy to play the role. He caressed her back with one hand and whispered urgently. "For God's sake, Wilma, isn't there somewhere we can go?"

  "Sure there is," she said calmly. "But it'll cost you."

  "Then let's go," he said.

  She walked ahead of him, out into the corridor and down to the far end. Another flight of stairs lifted into the darkness to the second floor. Brady followed her up and she opened a door and led the way into a wellfurnished bedroom.

  The walls were painted in pastel shades of blue to contrast with the pink carpets. The only furniture was the large divan bed which stood against the wall, a small table beside it on which stood a telephone.

  Wilma turned off the main light and clicked another switch and concealed wall lights cast a subdued glow over the room. Brady stood just inside the door and she closed it, turning the key in the lock, and put her arms around his neck.

  Whatever else one could say about her, she certainly knew her business. When she kissed him, her mouth opened and something seemed to crawl up his spine. He crushed her against him, returning the kiss avidly.

  After a moment, she pulled away, breathless and laughing. "Let's have a smoke," she said. "We've got plenty of time."

  He gave her a cigarette and she sprawled on the bed, her head against the pillow. "The more I look at you, the more convinced I am that I've seen your face somewhere."

  Brady lit his cigarette, blew out a plume of smoke. "I wouldn't be surprised," he said calmly. "It was splashed all over the newspapers for long enough. I'm Matthew Brady."

  There was a moment of absolute stillness and her eyes widened perceptibly. "Brady!" she said in a whisper. "But it isn't possible."

  "Sorry to disappoint you, angel," he said. "But it is. I crashed-out of Manningham Gaol not much more than an hour ago."

  She sat up, swinging her legs to the floor, and stubbed out her cigarette in the ash tray. "What do you want, Brady?" she said calmly, and she seemed to have recovered her nerve.

  "I haven't got time to argue, so I'll give it to you straight," Brady told her. "Jango tried to see me out of this world yesterday. With a little persuasion he told me that you'd put him up to it. I want to know why."

  "I'll see you in hell first," she said. "Get out of here before I ring for the law."

  She started to get up and Brady slapped her backhanded across the face, and pushed her back down on to the bed, a hand at her throat. "You'd better listen to me, you cheap tramp," he said. "If you put the cops on to me now or at any other time, I'll see that Jango pays. I've got friends inside--good friends. If I say the word, they'll make his face look like raw meat."

  She glared up at him, but there was fear in her eyes--real fear and he knew that he had said the right thing. That Jango was important to her.

  He took his hand away from her neck and she sat up, smoothing it with one hand. "What do you want to
know?" she said sullenly.

  "That's better," Brady said. "That's a whole lot better. Who asked you to sick Jango on to me?"

  She took a cigarette from a box by the telephone and lit it from a table lighter. "It was a man called Das," she said. "He's an Indian--runs a phoney religious set-up called the Temple of Quiet about a mile from here, near the Hippodrome Theatre."

  Brady frowned. "But I don't understand. I've never heard of him before."

  She shrugged. "I'm telling you the truth. He's got his finger in everything crooked that goes on in these parts from drugs to girls. He came to see me on Wednesday. Told me he had a client who wanted to see you meet with a fatal accident inside. He said there was five hundred in it for us if Jango could handle it."

  "And an extra two hundred and fifty if he managed it by today," Brady said.

  She nodded. "That's right. If you want to know anything more, you'll have to see Das."

  "I intend to," Brady said. He went to the door, unlocked it and turned. "Remember what I told you, Wilma. If I get nicked through you, Jango pays the piper."

  She spat out one filthy, unprintable word at him and he gently closed the door and went along the corridor.

  The girl in the cloakroom still looked bored. She gave him his coat and hat without a flicker of emotion and he put them on and went downstairs and out into the rain.

  (5)

  AS he walked away from the club the wind, blowing across the water, brought with it the dank, wet smell of rotting leaves, redolent with decay, filling him with a vague, irrational excitement.

  The rain was falling in solid silver lances that gleamed in the lamplight as he went briskly towards the centre of the town through deserted streets. An occasional car swept by, and now and then, someone hurried along the sidewalk, head lowered against the driving rain.

  He found an old man in tattered overcoat and cloth cap standing in a doorway on the corner of the main shopping street, hopefully trying to sell his last halfdozen Sunday newspapers. Brady bought one and the old man wiped a dewdrop from his nose with the back of a hand and stepped out into the rain to direct him.