Agent in Place

by Helen Macinnes

  Dorothea didn’t retreat. “Have you the time to search all through the hidden corners of this old house? It could take you hours.”

  That’s my Thea, Tom thought, smarter than I am. I’d have blurted out “suitcase,” and let them realise we knew more about them than was good for us. And there’s Thea, wide-eyed and innocent, nudging them into the first move. But hurry, Thea, for God’s sake hurry. That guy in the ski-mask who is thumping on the panelling is just about to reach the mantelpiece. And behind that damned clock he’ll find everything they are searching for.

  The telephone ended its twentieth ring.

  “Hours,” repeated Dorothea.

  The man actually hesitated. He said carefully, “We want the valuables you have stored in a suitcase.”

  “A suitcase?”

  Thea, my darling, we haven’t time to waste. Tom eyed the masked man, who was now only six feet away from the mantelpiece.

  “Oh,” said Thea, seemingly enlightened, “you mean this suitcase?” And now she was walking rapidly towards the hall.

  “Stop!” The manuscript was thrown on to the floor, scattering widely. “You tell us where it is.”

  “I’ll have to show you.” Thea walked on. “A difficult closet to find. The owner of this house simply hates doors that look like doors.” She was in the hall now. The two masked figures ran after her, caught her arms. “How can I show you—” she began angrily, struggling to free herself.

  “Let her go,” the master’s voice called out, and his two obedient servants released their grip. “Get that suitcase.”

  Dorothea pointed to the trompe-l’oeil panel. Idiots, she thought, they must have passed this closet, never even recognised the baroque symbolism of plumed hats and draped capes and silver-headed canes. “Just press your hand against that section—oh, stupids, where the grease-marks are—and why the hell don’t you speak English?” She pressed for them, just enough to let the panel open slightly, and drew back to let them finish the job. The staircase was behind her. She turned and ran.

  There was a shout from the living-room. One of the men left the closet, started after her. But she reached the bedroom door, slamming it in his face as she raced for the bathroom. She had its door—heavy, thick, a solid antique of hard oak—locked and bolted before he reached it.

  She threw a towel into the bath for sure footing, remembering to turn on the faucets in the hand-basin to cover any screech the curtains might make as she pulled them partly open—just enough to let her unfasten the sliding windows. The cool night air rushed in, and she stood looking down at the top of an acacia tree, yellow blossoms silvered by the moonlight. Behind her, the angry hammering on the door urged her on.

  I can’t do it, she thought, I can’t. But she sat down on the sill, slid one leg over it, and clutched the side of the window-frame. A pause. Then, gingerly, she reached out for the wisteria, slowly slowly until her fingers touched one of its strong ropes. Her hand closed around it, and tugged. It gave a little, then held firm. If a wisteria could tear a roof apart, then surely it can support you, she told herself. And if not—jump for the acacia.

  She edged herself along the last few inches of sill, her hand tight on the wisteria. Now her second hand, and her body swinging loose for a wild moment, her legs dangling, shoulders wrenching, and fear screaming silently in her throat. In desperation, she searched for a toe-hold on the gnarled trunk, found it, and released some of her weight from her arms. Hand over hand, feet blindly testing each twist on the spreading vine, she lowered herself through the fronds of tender leaves and their drooping lanterns of mauve flowers.

  She didn’t fall until the last three feet, when her arms gave out and she dropped with a jolt. I’m sorry, she told the wisteria and its shredded flowers, as she picked herself up from the ground. She tried to steady herself with a few deep breaths, and began running. But her legs were weak, her feet uncertain. Her pace settled into a stumbling walk.

  * * *

  Did she make it? Tom kept wondering. Did Thea make it? He paid no attention to the suitcase, brought triumphantly into the room. He kept watching the hall, the first few stairs that were visible. He kept listening. There was only the distant sound of heavy beating against solid wood. Then it ceased. But there was no scream, only light footsteps running downstairs. The man tried to be nonchalant. “She shut herself into the bathroom. We might as well leave her there.”

  “No window?”

  “None. I told you. So I locked the bedroom door in case she decided to come out.” He held up its key.

  “Bedroom windows?”

  “Too high—a sheer drop down two storeys on to a stone terrace.” He pocketed the key and laughed. “A real vixen, who would have thought it?”

  “Get on with your job! Search the rest of this room.” For nothing except the two envelopes had been found in the suitcase, so far. These were being examined with excessive care, even Chuck’s passport, his air-flight tickets, his hotel reservations, a timetable, a letter from a girl in Gstaad. Anything of paper, anything with writing, anything that could conceal between its pages. Two paperbacks were shaken and searched; so were two magazines. The minutes passed; time was a-wasting.

  And now, thought Tom as he felt the rising anger of the leader, things are going to turn ugly. Once that suitcase is emptied, they’ll start on me. His one way of escape, through the French windows on to the terrace, was still blocked: two men there, one kneeling as he pulled clothes on to the floor, went through pockets, even linings. And the third man, continuing his slow, methodical search of the room, was at the small table near the mantelpiece: it would be next on his list. The kitchen door was locked. So was the front door, seldom used, double-bolted. In any case, a bullet in his back would catch him before he could even reach the hall. The poker—no chance with that against three pistols.

  And then, he thought, why not use some direct shock? Anything to throw that son of a bitch off balance?

  Tom said, “If you’re looking for an engagement book, you’ll find it on the mantelpiece. There’s a letter there too, which might interest you.”

  The man looked away from the suitcase at his feet, stared at Tom.

  “It’s a copy,” Tom went on, “and there are four other copies in various hands. Did Rick Nealey actually think he could wipe the slate clean by this little attempt at robbery? He’s a fool. And so are you. He’s a marked man. He has been under surveillance for the last three months.”

  The man at the window hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. And then, from the thin black figure now searching the mantelpiece, there came “Here’s something.” His gloved hands were holding up a small book and a folded sheet of paper for all to see.

  The man at the window came to life, moved forward, arm outstretched, eyes on the letter.

  Tom made a sudden dive for the poker, swung it sharply against the man’s shins, threw it at ski-mask still on his knees by the suitcase, wrenched the window open, and sidestepped on to the terrace. A bullet passed close. He raced for the lemon-trees. As he leaped into their shadows, two men rushed out of the house, revolvers aimed blindly. And then, suddenly, a loud report that echoed over the hillside. That, thought Tom, was no pistol-shot.

  He didn’t wait to see the effect of it on the terrace, where three men now stood together. He seized that moment of their surprise, and ran for the nearest olive-tree, dodged behind it, waited for another bullet to sing past his shoulders.

  But there were no more bullets.

  He heard quickening feet, heels slipping in haste over gravel and earth. They were on the driveway, heading down to the road. And the nursery. And Thea?

  Tom left the shelter of the olive-tree, began running.

  22

  Tony Lawton made a high-speed journey through the sleeping town. As he left Menton and passed through the lower spread of Roquebrune, he assessed the time it had taken him to come this far from Georges’s hideaway. No, it couldn’t have been done faster than this: three breakneck minutes down the
stone steps, another three to the car, including the brief drive along the quai; less than a minute to zoom through the empty tunnel; three more for the next four kilometres through deserted back streets and abandoned avenues. Making ten, to this point. Plus another two, at full tilt up this little hill, and he’d be arriving at the Michel driveway by eleven or twelve minutes past midnight. Not bad, even if distances were short in this part of the world. And impossible, if there had been any traffic on the road. Bless all these sweet obliging people who tucked themselves into bed by midnight.

  There were always afterthoughts, of course. It could be that the Kelsos had given up the idea that he would call this late, were already deep in sleep—no telephone upstairs, he remembered, and an old house with thick walls and heavy doors. Yes, it could just be that he had come chasing out here on a wild surmise. And yet, whenever he hadn’t listened to the alarm-bell that sounded off in his subconscious mind, he had always regretted it. Tonight the alarm had been sharp and clear. Foolish or not, here I come, he thought and eased his speed, with the nursery just ahead, preparing for a sharp left turn into the driveway.

  He began the turn, saw a car, a dark solid mass drawn close to the mimosa trees. He swerved back, travelled a hundred yards farther up the road until he could make a left into Auguste’s compound—three small houses grouped near the nursery’s own entrance. He brought the Renault to a halt right under Auguste’s bedroom window.

  He hadn’t risked a short blast on the horn—no point in giving any warning to that car down at the Michel entrance—but surely the slight screech of brakes, as he pulled up to avoid the truck and the light delivery-van at one side of the yard, must have roused someone around here. It had: a dog barked, and was silenced. To make sure Auguste hadn’t turned over and gone back to sleep, Tony got out of the car and scooped up a handful of coarse gravel to toss at the window-pane, knocked on the door, rattled its handle, and started the dog barking again. And again it was silenced. Above him the bedroom curtains parted. A face looked out. Tony stood back to let Auguste have a clear view of him in the moonlight.

  The face stared down. Tony waved his arms. The face disappeared. A brief wait, the door opened, and he found himself looking into the double barrels of a shotgun.

  “Old friend, don’t you know me?”

  Auguste stared. Then his arm relaxed. Three years it had been, since Tony used to visit this yard, sit on that bench under the trees, and listen to Auguste’s stories about the Resistance. He laid the shotgun against the door, called a few words back over his shoulder, as he stepped outside, his flannel shirt half tucked into trousers, suspenders dangling, boots unlaced. A broad smile creased his weather-tanned cheeks. There was a firm handshake, a warm greeting thumped on Tony’s back. But the shrewd face was speculating hard.

  Tony wasted no time on explanations. “There’s a car stationed inside the Michel driveway. My headlights picked out one man at the wheel. So it isn’t two lovebirds having—”

  “Hand me that gun, Lucien,” Auguste told the boy who stood just within the doorway. “Tell your mother to call the police.” He turned back to Tony. “There has been thieving going on. Yes, even here it has started. They come by night, and load up. Plants taken and—”

  “No, no—I think the trouble is up at the Michel house.”

  “Trouble?” Auguste demanded, alert as a hawk, his beak of a nose jutting out, his dark eyes narrowing as if they were ready to swoop on their prey. “Burglars?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  “Not alone!” Auguste’s son had been quick. He returned now with a sweater added to his shirt and a heavy jacket for his father. Auguste drew it on, zipped it to the neck, said, “Now we go together, eh?”

  “Could use some help,” Tony admitted. “But first—block off the entrance to the Michel driveway.”

  “With what?”

  “The truck.”

  Auguste considered the idea, didn’t like it much. His truck was valuable property.

  “I’ll drive it,” the boy volunteered eagerly.

  Lucien must be sixteen now, but he was thin, all his growth going into his height. One of Auguste’s older sons, huskier, would be a safer choice. “Better wake one of your brothers—”

  “They!” said Lucien scornfully. “They’d sleep through an earthquake.”

  Recently married, both of them, Tony remembered. Lucien was making the decision for him, anyway. He was already half-way to the truck.

  Tony, starting along the nearest path, called back, “Once you park it, get the hell out. And wait here for the police.” Lucien looked disappointed, but he waved and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “He can handle it,” said Auguste, still frowning, as he caught up with Tony and settled into a quick jog.

  “There will be no damage to the truck,” Tony assured him. “And if there is, I’ll pay for it,” he added with a grin. He pointed obliquely across the nursery, to its far corner where the flowers ended and the rough ground of the hillside began. “We’ll head up there.” Near enough to the driveway without actually being in it; and, to be hoped, not noticeable. A quiet approach to the Michel house could be half the battle.

  “This way,” said Auguste, catching Tony by the arm, guiding him on to another path between the rows of flower-beds and plastic-covered greenhouses. It was a zigzag course, and Tony might have found himself being forced to retrace his steps if Auguste hadn’t been there to lead. The moonlight had become less dependable: cloud cover was beginning to move in from the sea. In another half-hour there would be nothing but deep shadow spreading over the hillside.

  And what about Lucien? Tony wondered. The truck had moved out of the yard, and must be running downhill, but so quietly that he couldn’t hear it. Had Lucien, the young idiot, put it into neutral? The next thing they’d hear would be a crash against the stone wall at the entrance to the driveway, and they’d have to veer off course to pick up the pieces: one truck, with gears stripped and fenders smashed, and Lucien jammed up against the wheel. But as they reached the end of their lope through the nursery, he heard the loud—but normal—sound of brakes as the truck pulled up; and then dead silence. “He managed it,” Tony said, “Lucien actually managed it!”

  Auguste only nodded, didn’t seem the least astonished. He had halted, his eyes on the hillside. “Someone’s out there.” He studied the sparse cloud-shadows that blotched the stretch of open ground above them. Scattered boulders and bushes made it difficult to see. Only the Michel house, a dark silhouette, quiet, peaceful, was clearly visible. Auguste crouched low, pulled Tony down beside him, listened intently. “One man. Running.”

  “Stumbling,” Tony whispered back. “He’s having a hard time.” Then they both saw him slide down on to the surer surface of the driveway, come running—slowly, blindly, too worried about his footing to notice either them or the car down by the gate. Quickly, Tony glanced in its direction. The driver was out, staring at the truck that had blocked his exit; now he swung around to face the running man.

  “A woman,” Tony said, rising to intercept her.

  Dorothea... He ran, but she was making one last desperate effort to reach the acacias. And then her head came up as she halted, suddenly aware of the car, of its driver. They stared at each other.

  She turned and came stumbling back on to the hillside, into Tony’s arms.

  She cried out in fear, struck him, struggled to free herself, beat weakly at his face with her fists. He caught her wrists, pulled them down, saying, “It’s Tony. Just me—Tony. Dorothea—it’s Tony!” Suddenly her rigid body relaxed, sagging against his. He held her tightly, felt her flinch with pain as his hand grasped her shoulder.

  Auguste was beside them. “What about him?” He pointed his shotgun towards the car.

  Dorothea was saying, her breath coming in painful gasps, “The police—call the police.”

  “It’s done,” Tony told her. “How many at the house?”

  “Three. All arm
ed. Tom only has a—”

  The silence of the night was cut through by a pistol shot. It came from the house.

  “Tom—” Dorothea cried out, “Tom—”

  “No, no,” Tony tried to calm her. “It need not be.” But his own heart sank.

  “I’ll deal with this one,” said Auguste, grim-faced, and moved towards the car. Its driver had only hesitated for the fraction of a second after the revolver had been fired. He was already on the run, dodging downhill through the olive-trees, leaping from terrace to terrace. Auguste cursed, could only aim the shotgun blindly into the darkness, and fired. “I scared the rascal off, anyway. Do we go after him?”

  “No—up to the house.” Tony pushed Dorothea towards the acacias. From there, she’d find a straight path through the nursery. “You get to Augustine. The police will soon be there. Tell them about the burglars.”

  “Burglars?”

  “What else?”

  She nodded, partly understanding. “But I want to come with—”

  “No. Get off this hillside!” Tony called back to her, already on his way. He was running hard now, keeping to the driveway for the sake of speed. Behind him Auguste’s heavy footsteps tried to catch up.

  Dorothea hesitated, attempted to follow, gave up after the first slow steps. She turned away, began walking towards the acacias and the abandoned car. Rick Nealey... It had been Nealey whom she had clearly seen in that one terrifying moment when she thought she was trapped after all. But now he had vanished. There was only the dark green car, its door still open, and behind it—strangely—a truck drawn across the entrance to the driveway. From the Roquebrune road she could hear a singsong siren drawing nearer and nearer. They were all too late, she thought, and burst into tears. They scalded her cheeks, searching out the scratches, stinging them, reminding her of the wisteria. The pain in her shoulder suddenly screamed. And for the first time, she became aware of a bruise on her hip, a dull steady ache that sent her limping into the nursery.