Eagle Has Landed

by Jack Higgins

  ‘Sure and I can only put it down to my good looks,’ Devlin told him.

  Madness sparked in Seymour’s eyes, the Devil looked out, hot and wild. He had Devlin by the front of the coat and pulled him close. ‘Don’t make fun of me, little man. Don’t ever do that or I’ll step on you as I’d step on a slug.’

  Wilde grabbed his arm. ‘Now come on, Arthur,’ but Seymour pushed him away.

  ‘You walk soft round here, you keep your place and we might get on. Understand me?’

  Devlin smiled anxiously. ‘Sure and if I’ve given offence, I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s better,’ Seymour released his grip and patted his face. That’s much better. Only in future, remember one thing. When I come in, you leave.’

  He went out, the door banged behind him and Laker Armsby cackled wildly, ‘He’s a bad bastard is Arthur.’

  George Wilde vanished into the back room and returned with a bottle of Scotch and some glasses. ‘This stuff’s hard to come by at the moment, but I reckon you’ve earned one on me, Mr Devlin.’

  ‘Liam,’ Devlin said. ‘Call me Liam.’ He accepted the glass of whisky. ‘Is he always like that?’

  ‘Ever since I’ve known him.’

  ‘There was a girl outside in a pony and trap as I came in. Does he have some special interest there?’

  ‘Fancies his chances.’ Laker Armsby chuckled. ‘Only she won’t have any of it.’

  ‘That’s Molly Prior,’ Wilde said. ‘She and her mother have a farm a couple of miles this side of Hobs End. Been running it between them since last year when her father died. Laker gives them a few hours when he isn’t busy at the church.’

  ‘Seymour does a bit for them as well. Some of the heavy stuff.’

  ‘And thinks he owns the place, I suppose? Why isn’t he in the Army?’

  ‘That’s another sore point. They turned him down because of a perforated eardrum.’

  ‘Which he took as an insult to his great manhood, I suppose?’ Devlin said.

  Wilde said awkwardly, as if he felt some explanation was necessary, ‘I picked up a packet myself with the Royal Artillery at Narvik in April, nineteen-forty. Lost my right kneecap, so it was a short war for me. You got yours in France I understand?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Devlin said calmly. ‘Near Arras. Came out through Dunkirk on a stretcher and never knew a thing about it.’

  ‘And over a year in hospitals Mrs Grey tells me?’

  Devlin nodded. ‘A grand woman. I’m very grateful to her. Her husband knew my people back home years ago. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t have this job.’

  ‘A lady,’ Wilde said. ‘A real lady. There’s nobody better liked round here.’

  Laker Armsby said, ‘Now me, I copped my first packet on the Somme in nineteen-sixteen. With the Welsh Guards, I was.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Devlin took a shilling from his pocket, slapped it down on the table and winked at Wilde, ‘Give him a pint, but I’m off. Got work to do.’

  When he reached the coast road, Devlin took the first dyke path that he came to at the northerly end of Hobs End marsh and drove out towards the fringe of pine trees. It was a crisp, autumnal sort of day, cold but bracing, white clouds chasing each other across a blue sky. He opened the throttle and roared along the narrow dyke path. A hell of a risk, for one wrong move and he’d be into the marsh. Stupid really, but that was the kind of mood he was in, and the sense of freedom was exhilarating.

  He throttled back, braking to turn into another path, working his way along the network of dykes towards the coast, when a horse and rider suddenly appeared from the reeds thirty or forty yards to his right and scrambled up on top of the dyke. It was the girl he’d last seen in the village in the pony and trap, Molly Prior. As he slowed, she leaned low over the horse’s neck and urged it into a gallop, racing him on a parallel course.

  Devlin responded instantly, opening the throttle and surging forward in a burst of speed, kicking dirt out in a great spray into the marsh behind him. The girl had an advantage, in that the dyke she was on ran straight to the pine trees, whereas Devlin had to work his way through a maze, turning from one path into another and he lost ground.

  She was close to the trees now and as he skidded out of one path broadside on and finally found a clear run, she plunged her mount into the water and mud of the marsh, urging it through the reeds in a final short cut. The horse responded well and a few moments later, bounded free and disappeared into the pines.

  Devlin left the dyke path at speed, shot up the side of the first sand dune, travelled some little distance through the air and alighted in soft white sand, going down on one knee in a long slide.

  Molly Prior was sitting at the foot of a pine tree gazing out to sea, her chin on her knees. She was dressed exactly as she had been when Devlin had last seen her except that she had taken off the beret, exposing short-cropped, tawny hair. The horse grazed on a tuft of grass that pushed up through the sand.

  Devlin got the bike up on its stand and threw himself down beside her. ‘A fine day, thanks be to God.’

  She turned and said calmly, ‘What kept you?’

  Devlin had taken off his cap to wipe sweat from his forehead and he looked up at her in astonishment, ‘What kept me, is it? Why, you little …’

  And then she smiled. More than that, threw back her head and laughed and Devlin laughed too. ‘By God, and I’ll know you till the crack of Doomsday, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ She spoke with the strong and distinctive Norfolk accent that was still so new to him.

  ‘Oh, a saying they have where I come from.’ He found a packet of cigarettes and put one in his mouth. ‘Do you use these things?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good for you, they’d stunt your growth and you with your green years still ahead of you.’

  ‘I’m seventeen, I’ll have you know,’ she told him. ‘Eighteen in February.’

  Devlin put a match to his cigarette and lay back pillowing his head on his hands, the peak of his cap over his eyes. ‘February what?’

  ‘The twenty-second.’

  ‘Ah, a little fish, is it? Pisces. We should do well together, me being a Scorpio. You should never marry a Virgo, by the way. No chance of them and Pisces hitting it off at all. Take Arthur, now. I’ve a terrible hunch he’s a Virgo. I’d watch it there if I were you.’

  ‘Arthur?’ she said. ‘You mean Arthur Seymour? Are you crazy?’

  ‘No, but I think he is,’ Devlin replied and carried on. ‘Pure, clean, virtuous and not very hot, which is a terrible pity from where I’m lying.’

  She had turned round to look down at him and the old coat gaped open. Her breasts were full and firm, barely contained by the cotton blouse she was wearing.

  ‘Oh, girl dear, you’ll have a terrible problem with your weight in a year or two if you don’t watch your food.’

  Her eyes flashed, she glanced down and instinctively pulled her coat together. ‘You bastard,’ she said, somehow drawing the word out. And then she saw his lips quiver and leaned down to peer under the peak of the cap. ‘Why, you’re laughing at me!’ She pulled off his cap and threw it away.

  ‘And what else would I do with you, Molly Prior?’ He put out a hand defensively. ‘No, don’t answer that.’

  She sat back against the tree, her hands in her pockets. ‘How did you know my name?’

  ‘George Wilde told me at the pub.’

  ‘Oh, I see now. And Arthur—was he there?’

  ‘You could say that. I get the impression he looks upon you as his personal property.’

  ‘Then he can go to hell,’ she said, suddenly fierce. ‘I belong to no man.’

  He looked up at her from where he lay, the cigarette hanging from the comer of his mouth, and smiled. ‘Your nose turns up, has anyone ever told you that? And when you’re angry, your mouth goes down at the corners.’

  He had gone too far, touched some source of secret inner hurt. She flushed and
said bitterly. ‘Oh, I’m ugly enough, Mr Devlin. I’ve sat all night long at dances in Holt without being asked, too often not to know my place. You wouldn’t throw me out on a wet Saturday night, I know. But that’s men for you. Anything’s better than nothing.’

  She started to get up, Devlin had her by the ankle and dragged her down, pinning her with one strong arm as she struggled. ‘You know my name? How’s that?’

  ‘Don’t let it go to your head. Everybody knows about you. Everything there is to know.’

  ‘I’ve news for you,’ he said pushing himself up on one elbow and leaning over her. ‘You don’t know the first thing about me because if you did, you’d know I prefer fine autumn afternoons under the pine trees to wet Saturday nights. On the other hand, the sand has a terrible way of getting where it shouldn’t.’ She went very still. He kissed her briefly on the mouth and rolled away. ‘Now get the hell out of it before I let my mad passion run away with me.’

  She grabbed her beret, jumped to her feet and reached for the horse’s bridle. When she turned to glance at him her face was serious, but after she’d scrambled into the saddle and pulled her mount round to look at him again, she was smiling. ‘They told me all Irishmen were mad. Now I believe them. I’ll be at Mass Sunday evening. Will you?’

  ‘Do I look as though I will?’

  The horse was stamping, turning in half-circles, but she held it well. ‘Yes,’ she said seriously, ‘I think you do,’ and she gave the horse its head and galloped away.

  ‘Oh, you idiot, Liam,’ Devlin said softly as he pushed his motorcycle off its stand and shoved it alongside the sand dune, through the trees and on to the path. ‘Won’t you ever learn?’

  He drove back along the main dyke top, sedately this time, and ran the motorcycle into the barn. He found the key where he’d left it under the stone by the door and let himself in. He put the shotgun in the hallstand, went into the kitchen, unbuttoning his raincoat, and paused. There was a pitcher of milk on the table, a dozen brown eggs in a white bowl.

  ‘Mother Mary,’ he said softly. ‘Would you look at that now?’

  He touched the bowl gently with one finger, but when he finally turned to take off his coat, his face was bleak.

  Eight

  IN BIRMINGHAM A COLD wind drifted across the city, hurling rain against the plate glass window of Ben Garvald’s flat above the garage in Saltley. In the silk dressing gown and with a scarf at the throat, the dark, curly hair carefully combed, he made an imposing figure; the broken nose added a sort of rugged grandeur. A closer inspection was not so flattering, the fruits of dissipation showing clearly on the fleshy arrogant face.

  But this morning he faced something more—a considerable annoyance with the world at large. At eleven-thirty on the previous night, one of his business ventures, a small illegal gaming club in a house in an apparently respectable street in Aston had been turned over by the City of Birmingham Police. Not that Garvald was in any personal danger of being arrested himself. That was what the front man was paid for, and he would be taken care of. Much more serious was the three and a half thousand pounds on the gaming tables which had been confiscated by the police.

  The kitchen door swung open and a young girl of seventeen or eighteen came in. She wore a pink lace dressing gown, her peroxide-blonde hair was tousled and her face was blotched, the eyes swollen from weeping. ‘Can I get you anything else, Mr Garvald?’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Get me anything?’ he said. ‘That’s good. That’s bloody rich, that is, seeing as how you haven’t bleeding well given me anything yet.’

  He spoke without turning round. His interest had been caught by a man on a motorcycle who had just ridden into the yard below and parked beside one of the trucks.

  The girl who had found herself quite unable to cope with some of Garvald’s more bizarre demands of the previous night said tearfully, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Garvald.’

  The man below had walked across the yard and disappeared now. Garvald turned and said to the girl, ‘Go on, get your clothes on and piss off.’ She was frightened to death, shaking with fear and staring at him, mesmerized. A delicious feeling of power, almost sexual in its intensity, flooded through him. He grabbed her hair and twisted it cruelly. ‘And learn to do as you’re told. Understand?’

  As the girl fled, the outer door opened and Reuben Garvald, Ben’s younger brother, entered. He was small and sickly-looking, one shoulder slightly higher than the other, but the black eyes in the pale face were constantly on the move, missing nothing.

  His eyes followed the girl disapprovingly as she disappeared into the bedroom. ‘I wish you wouldn’t, Ben. A dirty little cow like that. You might catch something.’

  ‘That’s what they invented penicillin for,’ Garvald said. ‘Anyway, what do you want?’

  ‘There’s a bloke to see you. Just came in on a motorcycle.’

  ‘So I noticed. What’s he want?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say. Cheeky little Mick with too much off.’ Reuben held out half a five pound note. ‘Told me to give you that. Said you could have the other half if you’d see him.’

  Garvald laughed, quite spontaneously, and plucked the torn banknote from his brother’s hand. ‘I like it. Yes, I very definitely go for that.’ He took it to the window and examined it. ‘It looks Kosher, too.’ He turned, grinning. ‘I wonder if he’s got any more, Reuben? Let’s see.’

  Reuben went out and Garvald crossed to a sideboard in high good humour and poured himself a glass of Scotch. Maybe the morning was not going to turn out to be such a dead loss after all. It might even prove to be quite entertaining. He settled himself in an easy chair by the window.

  The door opened and Reuben ushered Devlin into the room. He was wet through, his raincoat saturated, and he took off his tweed cap and squeezed it over a Chinese porcelain bowl filled with bulbs. ‘Would you look at that now?’

  ‘All right,’ Garvald said. ‘I know all you bleedin’ Micks are cracked. You needn’t rub it in. What’s the name?’

  ‘Murphy, Mr Garvald,’ Devlin told him. ‘As in spuds.’

  ‘And I believe that, too,’ Garvald said. ‘Take that coat off, for Christ’s sake. You’ll ruin the bloody carpet. Genuine Axminster. Costs a fortune to get hold of that these days.’

  Devlin removed his dripping trenchcoat and handed it to Reuben, who looked mad but took it anyway and draped it over a chair by the window.

  ‘All right, sweetheart,’ Garvald said. ‘My time’s limited so let’s get to it.’

  Devlin rubbed his hands dry on his jacket and took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘They tell me you’re in the transport business,’ he said. ‘Amongst other things.’

  ‘Who tells you?’

  ‘I heard it around.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I need a truck. Bedford three-tonner. Army type.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Garvald was still smiling, but his eyes were watchful.

  ‘No, I also want a jeep, a compressor plus spray equipment and a couple of gallons of khaki-green paint. And I want both trucks to have service registration.’

  Garvald laughed out loud. ‘What are you going to do, start the Second Front on your own or something?’

  Devlin took a large envelope from his inside breast pocket and held it out. ‘There’s five hundred quid on account in there, just so you know I’m not wasting your time.’

  Garvald nodded to his brother who took the envelope, opened it and checked the contents. ‘He’s right, Ben. In brand new fivers, too.’

  He pushed the money across. Garvald weighed it in his hand then dropped it on the coffee table in front of him. He leaned back. ‘All right, let’s talk. Who are you working for?’

  ‘Me,’ Devlin said.

  Garvald didn’t believe him for a moment and showed it, but he didn’t argue the point. ‘You must have something good lined up to be going to all this trouble. Maybe you could do with a little help.’

  ‘I’ve told you what I need, Mr Garvald,’ Devlin sai
d. ‘One Bedford three-ton truck, a jeep, a compressor, and a couple of gallons of khaki-green paint. Now if you don’t think you can help, I can always try elsewhere.’

  Reuben said angrily, ‘Who the hell do you think you are? Walking in here’s one thing. Walking out again isn’t always so easy.’

  Devlin’s face was very pale and when he turned to look at Reuben, the blue eyes seemed to be fixed on some distant point, cold and remote. ‘Is that a fact, now?’

  He reached for the bundle of fivers, his left hand in his pocket on the butt of the Walther. Garvald slammed a hand down across them hard. ‘It’ll cost you,’ he said softly. ‘A nice, round figure. Let’s say two thousand quid.’

  He held Devlin’s gaze in a kind of challenge, there was a lengthy pause and then Devlin smiled. ‘I bet you had a mean left hand in your prime.’

  ‘I still do, boy.’ Garvald clenched his fist. ‘The best in the business.’

  ‘All right,’ Devlin said. ‘Throw in fifty gallons of petrol in Army jerrycans and you’re on.’

  Garvald held out his hand. ‘Done. We’ll have a drink on it. What’s your pleasure?’

  ‘Irish if you’ve got it. Bushmills for preference.’

  ‘I got everything, boy. Anything and everything.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Reuben, how about some of that Bushmills for our friend here?’ Reuben hesitated, his face set and angry, and Garvald said in a low, dangerous voice, ‘The Bushmills, Reuben.’

  His brother went over to the sideboard and opened the cupboard, disclosing dozens of bottles underneath. ‘You do all right for yourself,’ Devlin observed.

  ‘The only way,’ Garvald took a cigar from a box on the coffee table. ‘You want to take delivery in Birmingham or someplace else?’

  ‘Somewhere near Peterborough on the A1 would do,’ Devlin said.

  Reuben handed him a glass. ‘You’re bloody choosy, aren’t you?’

  Garvald cut in. ‘No, that’s all right. You know Norman Cross? That’s on the A1 about five miles out of Peterborough. There’s a garage called Fogarty’s a couple of miles down the road. It’s closed at the moment.’