by John Creasey
‘I’m coming with you,’ she interrupted. ‘I’ve a grip with some clothes in the boot. I had to fool Carl.’
Greeting the pilot and his second-in-command, climbing into the aircraft behind Lissa, looking out of the window at the green fields, the stretch of tarmac and the small aerodrome buildings all seemed to crowd in on Roger. He had hardly sat down before they started to move. There were twenty-two seats, but they were the only passengers.
He sensed the smoothness of the ‘plane as it was airborne. It circled once, and he saw the building again. Lissa was by his side, leaning back relaxed.
But as the machine climbed, and Roger also relaxed back in his seat, a darting thought drove relaxation away.
He knew that Lissa could have doped the Shawns; knew too that she could have betrayed him, Roger, before, although he didn’t think so, hated to think so. Could she have hired this plane and hired the pilot?
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Wheelchair
“We’re nearly there,’ Lissa said. ‘There’s Trenton.’
She pointed to a huddle of houses thousands of feet below, a township set amid green countryside, rolling and pleasant. Even up here, they could see the winding ribbons of roads and, not far away, a road wider and straighter than the others. ‘I wonder if they’re right, and they’ve found Gissing.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Roger, and forced out the question which he had locked in for the past hour and a half. ‘Why did you come the way you did?’
‘I knew Carl was up, there was a light under his door when I left your room. I thought if he saw me about in a robe, he would assume that I wasn’t leaving. But naturally he had to see me fully dressed. If he’s involved, he will have found a way of warning Gissing. I suppose I could, too.’
Roger shrugged. ‘Everyone but Ed Pullinger. It might have been better to stay behind. Carl wouldn’t have been suspicious of me leaving on my own.’
‘I had to come,’ Lissa said.
‘Orders?’
Her eyes laughed at him. ‘Yes, and not mine.’
They were circling to land, and Roger could pick out the small airfield and the little ant-like figures of men waiting for them. He still didn’t feel sure of anything, but was less uneasy than he had been. The landing came, as always, before he expected it. They taxied towards the airport buildings, past them slowly once, and then turned back again. He felt Lissa become tense. They turned again and taxied back, and Lissa said softly: ‘There he is.’
‘Who?’
Roger peered out of the little window, and needed no answer. A man sat in a wheelchair outside the doors of the building. He wasn’t smiling. He had a big face, and even from here his chin and jowl seemed dark. He was hatless, and his hair looked black as soot. Marino had come home.
Marino’s hand-clasp had the warmth of old, tried friendship. He smiled at Roger, then put both hands out to Lissa, who bent down and kissed him on the forehead. He chuckled as he began to turn the wheels of his chair. Roger and Lissa walked, one on either side of him, across the grass towards the cars which were waiting on the road leading to the town.
‘I need more of that treatment,’ Marino said. ‘Have you two made it up?’
‘Who’s quarrelled?’ asked Roger.
Marino’s manner had a touch of boyishness which was good to see, which hid excitement and expectation; he seemed more than ever sure of himself.
‘Didn’t she quarrel with you, Detective?’ Roger looked over his head at a demure Lissa. ‘Lissa reported it to Washington, I picked up a message,’ went on Marino. ‘It wasn’t a laugh, either, Lissa had been pointed out as a suspect by others, but we always come down on her side. Carl Fischer – it would surprise me if he were anti-American, but I’ve been surprised before. Ed Pullinger? He was at the swimming-pool when Ricky dropped that identity tag. We can work on that later. Sure you’ll recognise Gissing again, Roger?’
Roger said: ‘If I had to forget you or Gissing, I would forget you. Where is he?’
‘We think he’s at a farm fifteen miles from here,’ replied Marino. ‘He answers your description. He was seen in a car early last night. There were two cars, the same make as two of the cars which left Webster’s old house, and in the first there was a boy passenger, who seemed to be asleep. A traffic cop noticed them. He was directing traffic past an accident, they had to slow down, and he had a good look. So we checked. Several other people noticed the two cars, and three described Gissing well enough to make us hope. So we got into the garage during the night and scraped some of the dirt from under the guards. It’s Adirondack dirt, of a kind you don’t find in New Jersey. There was a copy of the Wycoma Standard in the glove compartment, too, so the cars came from that neck of the wood. A man who could be Gissing, a sleeping boy and this evidence, isn’t conclusive, but why shouldn’t we hope?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ Lissa said. ‘Why did you come yourself, Tony?’
‘I was recalled. I have to talk David into going back to England.’ No one spoke.
Marino was helped into a big pre-war Lincoln, next to the driver, with Roger and Lissa at the back.
‘We’re going to a restaurant two miles away from the farm,’ Marino said, ‘and from there we’re going to raid the house. It will catch them with their pants down. The farm’s surrounded, and anyone who leaves is picked up when he’s too far away to be noticed by anybody still at the farmhouse. It can’t go wrong.’
He meant: ‘It mustn’t go wrong.’
‘And when you’ve caught Gissing and found the boy, I just put a finger on Gissing,’ Roger said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Don’t you like the plan?’ Lissa picked out the doubt in his voice.
‘I don’t like it at all,’ Roger said bluntly.
‘How would you do it?’ Marino asked, turning his head with difficulty.
‘I could identify him first, you could catch him afterwards.’
‘You would go up to the house on your own?’
‘And have a better opportunity to get in. If he has time, he might kill that boy.’ Roger’s tone was light, but neither of the others needed telling what he was thinking. ‘Let’s give the boy a chance.’
‘How would he think you’d found him on your own?’ Marino asked dryly. ‘We’ll do it our way.’
‘It’s the wrong way.’
Marino sighed. ‘These stubborn Britishers.’
‘Oh, I know, I’ve been wrong all along,’ Roger said heavily. ‘If Fischer’s the spy, Gissing will know that I’m on the way somewhere. Lissa tried hard, but Fischer wouldn’t so easily be convinced that I was recalled to London. Even if Fischer didn’t, someone else might have warned Gissing, and the chances are he will be ready for you when you arrive. You know all this as well as I do.’
‘If Gissing’s had a warning, he would be ready for us and ready for you. And if you went alone, he would know we weren’t far behind,’ Marino argued.
‘Are we getting any place?’ asked Lissa.
‘We will do it my way,’ said Marino. ‘Sorry, Roger, but that’s how it is.’
They drove on, the chauffeur apparently oblivious. Roger sat at the back, staring at Marino’s head, knowing nothing would move the man yet feeling sure that to raid the house as Marino planned offered risks that could be avoided. The truth was simple: Marino was sure that he had Gissing surrounded, thought that when Gissing knew the game was up, he would submit without a fight. He didn’t know Gissing.
Roger wished constraint had not fallen on all of them – a form of reaction because the end seemed to be near. Lissa didn’t look at him. He studied her lips, and remembered …
He turned his head, and then heard a car horn blare out. It blared again, loud and shrill with warning. The driver swerved to one side, and a car flashed by, pulled in front of them and began to slow down. A man in the front passenger seat waved wildly. The driver put on his brakes, and looked at Marino.
‘What’ll I do?’
‘It’s
Pullinger!’ Lissa said. ‘Pullinger’s waving.’
‘Okay,’ Marino said to the driver.
‘How much does he know?’ Roger asked. The uneasiness he had felt at Webster’s house when Pullinger had been brought in, and which he had felt again at Wycoma, had never been stronger. ‘About the farmhouse, I mean.’
‘Nothing,’ said Marino. He was frowning at Pullinger, who had climbed out of the car ahead and was running towards them. ‘We didn’t tell him. He didn’t do a very good job with you in New York, Roger, but we haven’t checked his story yet. I thought he was in Wycoma, he was told to stay there and go through the Webster house, pulling it apart.’ He wound down his window as Pullinger came up, breathing heavily. His eyes glittered, as if he couldn’t fight down excitement.
‘Hi, Ed,’ said Marino smoothly. ‘How come?’
‘Tony, have I got news for you!’ Pullinger paused, as if for breath. ‘I found plenty at Webster’s house. The address of the farm.’ He jerked his head backwards, and paused again. ‘I called the office, and they told me you had an address already.’
‘So what’s news, Ed?’
‘This is news,’ said Pullinger. He pulled a gun from his pocket, and his grin was from ear to ear. ‘Big news. Ready for more. I told the office you’d got the wrong farm. I had the cordon moved, no one is round Gissing’s place now. How do you like the news, Tony?’ He was still grinning.
The driver of Pullinger’s car was standing at the other side of the Lincoln. His back was to passing traffic, but Roger could see his gun.
‘You want to drive on, and have a talk with Gissing?’ Pullinger invited.
Tony Marino didn’t answer. Lissa leaned back, with her eyes closed; Roger had never seen her look tired before. In the bright morning two cars passed, drivers and passengers looking curiously at the old Lincoln and the Chevrolet in front of it. A big truck and trailer ground its way towards them, and Pullinger’s man pressed closer to the car, to make sure there was room.
This answered many questions, but Pullinger had not doped the milk, had never been in England.
‘You don’t have to drive on,’ Pullinger said. He looked absurdly young. ‘But if you’re not at the farmhouse in twenty minutes, the Shawns won’t have a son named Ricky. Just imagine what that will do to David Shawn. Guess how much use he would be to you after that, Tony. Gissing might make a visit worth your while. Why not come along? Lissa and my old pal Roger can get into the Chevy, I’ll keep you company. You want to get out, Lissa?’
He opened the rear door with his free hand. He didn’t look evil, as Gissing could look, but just a fresh-faced, eager boy. He was taking a desperate chance. Traffic wasn’t thick here, but there was traffic.
‘I’ve grown to like Ricky,’ he said. ‘No one can blame the kid, can they? And you can’t do anything to help now, Tony, unless you talk to Gissing. Why not try it?’ Behind his airy brightness the strain was beginning to show. ‘I said twenty minutes, and Gissing gets impatient.’
Roger couldn’t see the expression in Marino’s eyes, but he could imagine it. Lissa had opened her eyes, and her hands were clenched in her lap. Roger moved slightly, his side pressing against her leg; she must feel the gun which he had in the pocket, which she could get more easily than he. If there was a chance, it was now. Marino was holding Pullinger’s gaze, Pullinger showing greater signs of strain.
Lissa noticed nothing, or preferred to pretend that she didn’t.
‘So you’re on the other side, Ed,’ Marino said softly. ‘You’re a traitor. I didn’t think it could happen to you.’
Pullinger laughed, and the sound wasn’t free.
‘You can guess,’ he said. ‘You can guess wrong, too. It’s time Lissa and my old pal from Scotland Yard got moving. And you’re an important guy, Tony, I don’t want anything to happen to you either.’ He gave the laugh again. ‘Get moving.’
‘Do what he says,’ Marino said slowly.
Pullinger exclaimed: ‘That’s my boy! Take it easy, Lissa. Don’t try to pull anything, West.’
‘Don’t try to pull anything,’ Marino confirmed. ‘We’ll see what Gissing has to say.’
‘That’s one thing about Tony Marino, he’s full of good sound sense.’ Pullinger was exultant as yet another car was waved past by his companion, who was still standing on the Lincoln’s off side. He held the rear door wide open, and Lissa got out, Roger followed, his gun knocking against his side, twice. It didn’t have a chance to do that a third time, for Pullinger slipped his hand into Roger’s pocket and took it; he dropped it into his own pocket, and laughed again; his laugh was shrill. ‘Get going, old pal,’ he said.
Roger walked stiffly towards the Chevrolet, his arm brushing against Lissa’s. She stared straight ahead of her, and seemed to be moving like clockwork. The man from the other side of the Lincoln walked behind them, a hand in his pocket, his gun hidden. Pullinger was already in the Lincoln, covering Marino and the driver.
Lissa said softly: ‘Roger.’
He glanced at her. She didn’t raise her voice.
‘Roger, I don’t think we’ll see Gissing. We might talk to him, but we won’t see him. You’re the one on the spot. We might get away, but you won’t.’
‘Quit talking,’ said the man behind them.
‘Tell me a thing I can do,’ Roger said.
She didn’t answer. He didn’t need an answer. He could try to tackle the man behind him, and might manage to get away. The road was empty but for the two cars, now; another might come into sight at any moment, but would it do more than bring others into the tragedy? This was complete and utter failure.
They were almost alongside the Chevrolet.
‘I’m going to run,’ Lissa said in that faint whisper. ‘And you’re going to run, when I’ve drawn fire. One of us will have a chance. Be ready.’
‘Don’t do it!’
The man behind might hear his voice or at least the urgency of Roger’s manner.
He gripped Lissa’s arm. ‘Don’t do it’
‘I’m going to run,’ Lissa said. ‘You’ll have a chance that way.’
On the last word, she pushed him aside, then raced alongside the Chevrolet. Roger staggered against the side of the car. There was a wire fence along the road here, and beyond it an orchard of young fruit trees, but Lissa hadn’t a chance to reach cover. Roger was still off his balance when he heard the shot and saw her fall.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Face Of Marino
Lissa fell headlong as the echo of the shot died away. She was still moving with convulsive jerks of arms, legs and head when Roger turned on the man behind him, who had shot her. If the gun had been pointing at his own chest and murder been in that man’s eyes, it would have made no difference. Roger saw that the man was still watching Lissa; he could see nothing in the car behind. Swiftly he flung himself forward and downwards, arms outstretched to grab the gunman’s legs. The roar of a shot blasted his ears as his arms folded behind the man’s knees and he heaved.
The man pitched backwards, his hat flew off, his head crashed against the road.
There might be danger left, but not from the fallen man. He lay as still as death, the gun a few inches from a limp hand; as Roger stood up, blood started to flow sluggishly, collecting the pale dust of the road. Now the danger came from Pullinger and the Lincoln. Roger snatched the gun, his finger on the trigger as he looked up, prepared for the winged bullet of death. Pullinger, Marino and the driver were puppets leaping and prancing between him and Lissa; the burning image on his mind was of Lissa, falling. It faded.
Marino had turned in his seat, and it was almost impossible for Marino to turn. His face was just a cheek, an ear and the tip of a nose. He had twisted himself round so that his left arm was over the back of his seat, fingers buried deep in Pullinger’s neck. His right fist, clenched, smashed and kept smashing into Pullinger’s face, and already that youthful face was a scarlet running wound. There were other sounds, of car engines and car horns
, but all that Roger really heard was the sickening thudding of fist against face.
The driver was plucking helplessly at Marino’s wrists.
Roger made himself look round. A car had stopped, and two men were running towards Lissa, another car was drawing up alongside him, the driver shouting questions which he didn’t hear. He could leave Lissa to others; he must. He ran to the door of the Lincoln, pulled it open, and struck Marino on the side of the head, a blow that would have knocked most men sideways. Marino kept smashing into the red mess. Roger struck him again, savagely, and Marino’s grip on Pullinger’s neck relaxed. The driver put both hands against Pullinger’s shoulders and pushed; Pullinger fell back on the seat. Roger saw the driver lean over to take Pullinger’s gun from the floor.
Marino moved round clumsily. Roger looked into a face so suffused with hatred that he himself could neither move nor speak. He didn’t know how long he stood there. He was vaguely aware that motorists were approaching, warily because of the guns in his hand and in the driver’s; and he saw, as if it were happening a long way off and had nothing to do with him, that the motorists stopped dead when they saw Marino.
At last Marino’s gaze shifted, and he looked past Roger towards the orchard and the men who bent over Lissa. Roger didn’t know that they were lifting her. He saw the transformation; it was like watching a devil turn into a saint. All hatred died. Yearning showed in Marino’s eyes, and his face was touched with a softness that matched a mother’s for a child; a lover’s for his love.
He didn’t speak or need to speak. Roger knew why he had succumbed to the red surge of rage, why he had changed now.
A man said: ‘Put that gun down, will you?’
‘Don’t get too near, Hank,’ another warned.
‘You heard me – put that gun down.’
Roger forced himself to look away from Marino and saw the motorists, two of them, Hank probably the nearer, a stripling wearing a peaked skull cap and a red lumber jacket, whose long jaw was thrust forward and who was edging closer.