by Jack Higgins
Frenchy grunted. ‘So what? He’s going anyway, isn’t he?’
He took a firm grip of Shane’s coat and lifted him into a sitting position. He grinned evilly. ‘O.K., Jack. Drink your medicine like a good boy.’
The neck of a bottle was rammed between Shane’s teeth, and whisky gurgled into his throat. A terrible nausea flooded through him. His body jerked convulsively and vomit erupted from his mouth in a fine spray.
Frenchy jumped up with a curse and kicked him viciously in the body. ‘The bastard’s ruined my coat,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll never get the stink of this stuff off.’ He hurled the bottle against a wall with a crash, and moved away. ‘I’m going for another bottle. When Joe arrives with the car, put laughing boy here in the back and wait for me.’ A door banged and he was gone.
It was quiet except for the steady sizzle of the rain, and Shane opened his eyes cautiously and looked around him. He was lying in a cobbled yard, and there was a man in a raincoat standing a few feet away from him facing a door. He decided he must be somewhere at the rear of the Garland Club.
He felt terrible. His head was splitting and there was a feeling of nausea in his stomach as if he were going to be sick again at any moment. He was utterly exhausted and all the strength seemed to have been drained out of him, and yet he knew that he was in deadly danger. If he were still here when Frenchy returned it was curtains and nothing on earth could save him.
The man by the door took out a packet of cigarettes and put one in his mouth. At that moment Shane’s hand closed over a loose cobblestone, and he dug his fingers desperately into the ground and pulled. The stone came free so suddenly that he rocked back against the wall. He took a deep breath and pushed himself upright.
The man by the door struck a match and cupped it in his hands against the wind. He leaned over and Shane staggered forward and smashed the cobblestone into the back of the exposed neck. As the man keeled over, Shane lurched across the yard and out through a narrow opening.
He found himself in the alley at the side of the club and as a sudden outcry broke out behind him, he emerged into the square. He moved along the pavement at a shambling trot and turned into the first side street he came to. He finally stopped from sheer exhaustion after turning and twisting through a maze of back streets for ten or fifteen minutes. He moved inside the gate of a scrap yard and sank down on his knees in the shadows. His stomach seemed to move and then he gagged suddenly.
It was some time before he could think clearly again. He cleaned himself up as far as he was able and lit a cigarette with hands that shook violently. He felt detached from his surroundings and as he started to walk, the buildings around him seemed to float in the thin fog and heavy rain.
There was a dull ache in the side of his neck where Steele had kicked him and his head seemed to swell like a balloon and coloured lights burst around him in the darkness. He paused and hung on to a lamp-post, letting the rain fall on his upturned face and after a while he felt better.
He took over half an hour to walk back to the flat and when he reached it there was a black saloon car parked outside. He stood by the gate and looked at the car, a slight frown on his face and then he entered the front door and mounted the stairs quietly.
As he moved towards the door there was a faint cry of pain that sounded somehow remote and far away. Shane stood there listening for a moment and then he moved quietly along to the end of the passage and opened the landing window.
An ornamental ledge a foot wide ran along the face of the building about three feet beneath the windows. He quickly scrambled out on to the ledge and started to edge his way along to the living-room window.
The rain hammered against his face and every muscle in his body seemed to tremble as he moved forward and peered round the edge of the window into the living-room.
A man in a dirty brown raincoat stood by the door, his arms folded impassively, no expression on his wooden face. Jenny Green was crouched on the floor by the fireplace, a dazed look on her tear-stained face. She was wearing a pair of black panties and the rest of her clothes were scattered about the room.
Frenchy was sitting in a chair beside her, heating a poker in the fire. There was an evil smile on his face and he reached out and nudged her with the toe of his shoe and said something. She shook her head vehemently and he slapped her across the face.
Shane moved along the ledge towards the bedroom window, black rage erupting inside him. He remembered that Jenny had left the window slightly open at the bottom on the night he had spent with her and prayed that it was her usual custom.
He slipped once and clawed desperately at the wall and then his right hand got a grip on the edge of the window and a moment later, he was holding on to the sill. His fingers found the gap he had been praying for, and he pushed up the sash silently and scrambled into the room.
There was an ornamental lamp at the side of the bed made from a French brandy bottle. He dispensed with the shade and the bulb and hefting the bottle in one hand, approached the door. He opened it quietly and peered in.
Frenchy had just taken the poker from the fire. It glowed white hot and he turned to the girl and said, ‘Now start talking. I know you’ve been making quite a friend of this bloke Shane. All you’ve got to do is to tell me where he might be and I won’t have to use this on you.’
The man at the door moved to get a better view and Shane stepped into the room and threw the bottle at him with all his strength. It caught the man in the side of the neck just below the right ear. He gave a strangled cry and fell back. His fingers scrabbled against the wall for a moment, and then slid to the floor and lay still.
Shane heard a cry of warning from Jenny and ducked as the poker whistled past his head. As Frenchy moved forward, Shane rammed the sofa against his legs, sending him staggering to the floor. He vaulted over the sofa and kicked savagely at the unprotected head, but Frenchy twisted desperately, grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him down on top of him.
For a few moments they rolled wildly from side to side, limbs threshing as Shane tried to get a grip on his opponent’s throat, and then Frenchy shortened his arm and smashed a fist into his mouth.
Shane rolled away from him, head swimming and scrambled to his feet, putting the sofa between them. Frenchy jumped up like a cat, triumph in his eyes and moved towards him.
And then Shane was tired no longer. He felt cold and calm and filled with the killing urge that had so often saved him in Korea. As Frenchy moved in close and swung a tremendous punch at his head, Shane ducked and rammed his stiffened fingers into the other man’s throat just above the Adam’s Apple.
Frenchy screamed horribly and fell on the floor, writhing and choking in agony. Shane stood looking down at him with no pity in his heart and then Jenny came round the sofa in a rush and flung herself into his arms. ‘Thank God!' she said. ‘Thank God you came. I’ve never been so scared in my life.’
He held her gently in his arms for a moment and then pushed her towards the bedroom. ‘You’d better get some clothes on,’ he said. ‘I’ll get rid of these two.’
As the bedroom door closed behind her, Shane hoisted Frenchy on to his shoulders and carried him downstairs to the car. When he returned to the flat his heart was pounding and he felt slightly dizzy. He remembered there was some sherry in a cupboard in the kitchen and went and half-filled a tumbler and drank it down slowly.
After a while he felt better. The man by the door, groaned slightly and tried to sit up. Shane lit a cigarette and went into the bedroom. Jenny was sitting in front of the dressing-table, applying make-up with a hand that shook a little.
‘How do you feel?’ he said.
She turned with a wan smile. ‘Not so good. It was like something that happens in a nightmare. I still can’t quite believe it’s all over.’
Shane squeezed her arm gently. ‘Nobody’s going to bother you any more. I promise you.’ She turned back to the mirror and he went on, ‘Have you any idea where Hampton is?’
She nodded. ‘It’s a village about nine miles out of town on the main road north.’
‘What would Reggie Steele be doing there?’
She shrugged. ‘That’s easy. He has a place just outside Hampton on the river. Garth Cottage it’s called.’
Shane nodded. ‘How do I get there?’
She frowned. ‘There’s an hourly service from Central Bus Station. You get off at Five Lane Ends just outside the village. There’s a dirt road by the bus stop. The cottage is about two hundred yards along it in some trees by the river.’
Shane looked at her in the mirror. ‘You look pretty foul,’ he said. ‘I’d give the club a miss tonight if I were you.’
She nodded and threw down the comb she was using. ‘I think I will,’ she said. ‘In fact I don’t feel like going back to the place ever again.’
He moved behind her and placed a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. ‘We’ll work something out, Jenny. Don’t worry.’ He walked to the door. ‘I’ve got a little business to attend to. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
She was too tired to argue. She nodded her head dumbly at him and he closed the door gently and turned to the man he had left lying on the floor. He was on his feet, leaning against the wall, moaning softly. Shane pushed him through the door in front of him and they went downstairs together.
Frenchy was still unconscious in the back seat and Shane pushed the other man in with him and got behind the wheel and drove away. He took the car down into the centre of town and parked it in a back street near the bus station. When he looked in through the rear window, Frenchy was still out and his friend was huddled in the corner of the seat, head in hands. Shane left them there and walked quickly away.
When he reached the station, there was a bus for Hampton just leaving and he ran for it, jumping on to the platform as it turned out of the concrete loading bay. He went upstairs and sat in a front seat, smoking and thinking about Steele. Whatever happened he intended to have those letters and some answers to a few things.
It was almost nine-thirty when he dropped off the bus and walked along the dirt road Jenny had mentioned. He could see a light through the trees before he came to the cottage. It was a lonely, eerie spot and the river rushed by only a few yards away at the bottom of a short slope.
He followed a path round to the rear of the building and found a Daimler standing in the cobbled yard. There was no light in the kitchen window and he lifted the old-fashioned latch and opened the back door.
He walked quietly along a short, stone-flagged corridor. There was a light showing under the door at the far end. He hesitated, then opened it quietly and stepped inside.
13
STEELE was sitting in front of a blazing fire. There was a bottle of whisky on the table at his hand and it was almost empty. He had a beautiful, double-barrelled shotgun across his knees which he was cleaning with an oily rag.
A woman was lying on the sofa and she pushed herself up and swung her legs to the floor. She had been drinking and her blouse was unbuttoned at the front. She reached for the bottle and her eyes met Shane’s. Her mouth fell open and there was indignation in her voice. ‘Heh, Reggie,’ she cried, ‘I thought you said this was going to be a private party.’
Steele looked up, a frown on his face and then he smiled. ‘Hallo, Shane. What a pleasant surprise.’ His eyes were glassy and he slurred his words slightly as if he were drunk.
Shane leaned against the door and lit a cigarette. ‘We didn’t get a chance to finish our conversation last time we met.’
Steele reached for the bottle and poured some whisky into his glass. ‘How did you manage to find my little hideaway?’
Shane shrugged. ‘I’ve got friends, which is more than I can say for you.’
Steele emptied his glass and placed it carefully on the table. ‘What happened to Frenchy?’
Shane laughed grimly. ‘He annoyed me,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’ll annoy anybody for quite a while now.’
There was a short silence broken only by the sound of the raindrops as they fell down the wide chimney and hissed into the fire. Steele said in a dreamy voice, ‘I’m beginning to realize we underestimated you, Shane.’
‘You certainly did,’ Shane said and some sixth sense made him reach back quickly and lift the latch of the door behind him.
Steele smiled pleasantly. ‘I can see I’m going to have to take drastic action.’ He raised the shotgun and fired one barrel.
Shane was already half-way through the door, crouching and he felt a sudden sharp pain as several stray pellets found their mark. He ran along the corridor and jumped out into the rain, Steele a few paces behind.
The gun blazed and he threw himself to the ground, shot whistling through the air above his head. Steele called, ’I’ll get you, you bastard. I’ve plenty more cartridges.’ He didn’t sound drunk any more.
Shane ran for the cover of the trees. He plunged into them as the gun roared again, lost his footing and rolled down the short slope to the river. He tried to catch at something to arrest his progress, but he was too late. He rolled over the edge of the earth bank and fell into the river with a strangled cry.
He surfaced some twenty yards downstream as the current carried him onwards in an iron hand. He allowed himself to drift with it, keeping his head above water and then his feet touched bottom. A sudden, unexpected eddy flung him against a sandbank and he staggered out of the water, clawing at the harsh tussocks of grass and dragged himself up the short slope through the trees.
He came out into the meadow and saw the lights of the cottage a hundred yards away to his right and set off towards them at a shambling run. He approached the back door cautiously and then he heard a sound behind him. It was Steele coming back from the river, the shotgun across one shoulder. Shane stood in the shadows and waited.
As Steele put a foot on the threshold, Shane hit him savagely in the neck. Steele gave a strangled moan and slumped to the ground. Shane leaned against the wall, sobbing for breath for a moment or two and then he gripped Steele firmly by the collar and dragged him along the corridor and into the living-room.
The woman was standing in front of the fire, a glass in one hand. As he straightened up and turned, she threw herself on him, screaming with rage, her fingers clawing at his face. He lifted her in his arms, kicked open the bedroom door and dropped her on to the bed. On his way out he took the key and locked the door from the outside.
In the kitchen he found a length of clothes line, tied Steele’s hands firmly behind his back and lifted him into one of the chairs by the fire. He helped himself to a drink and sat back and waited.
At first the woman hammered furiously on the bedroom door, but after a while she got tired. Steele groaned a couple of times and Shane leaned over and slapped him across the face. Steele’s head snapped back and his eyes opened.
They wandered about the room aimlessly and then focused on Shane. For a moment longer they remained empty and vacant, and then a spark of anger appeared.
Shane filled a glass with whisky and threw it into Steele’s face. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now we can talk.’
Steele’s eyes burned with hate and his tongue flickered over dry lips. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you,’ he said.
Shane lit a cigarette. ‘I think you have. I’ve been talking to Laura Faulkner. I saw you together the other night. She told me why.’
Something moved in Steele’s eyes, but he shrugged and said calmly, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Shane’s fist smashed into his mouth, jerked his head against the back of the chair. ‘I haven’t got much time,’ he said. ‘You’ve been blackmailing Laura Faulkner for years, you rat. You’ve got a certain envelope, addressed to her father, ready to be delivered if she doesn’t do as she’s told. I want it.’
Blood trickled from Steele’s chin, staining his white shirt and his eyes were dark with hate. ‘I’ll pay you out for this, you bastard,’ he screamed. �
�You and that fancy bitch can go to hell.’
Shane reached for the poker and inserted it into the heart of the fire. ‘As I said, I haven’t got much time.’ He sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair. ‘It’s funny how life goes round in a circle, isn’t it? Here am I in exactly the same position as Colonel Li. He was in rather a hurry, too - remember?’
Steele was staring at the poker in fascinated horror and all colour had left his face. He tried to laugh. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
Shane raised his eyebrows. ‘But why not? I got the idea from your pal, Frenchy. He tried it on a friend of mine earlier this evening.’
There was a short silence and then Shane leaned forward and took the poker from the fire. It was white hot and he turned and smiled gently. ‘Changed your mind yet, Reggie?’
Steele flung a curse at him and tried to scramble out of the chair. Shane flung him back and slowly advanced the poker. Sweat streamed down Steele’s brow and his head moved frantically from side to side. For a moment Shane hesitated and then an expression of utter ruthlessness appeared on his face. Slowly and deliberately he extended his arm and Steele screamed, high and shrill like a woman ’Take it away. For Christ’s sake, take it away.’
Shane lowered the poker, his face grim. ‘The envelope,’ he demanded. ‘Where is it?’
‘In the safe at my office,’ Steele gabbled. ‘Large white manilla envelope under the cash box on the top shelf. The key’s in my right hand pocket.’
Shane’s hand dipped into the pocket and came out holding a bunch of keys. He considered them for a moment and then slipped them into his own pocket. He grabbed Steele by the hair with his free hand and held the poker close to his cheek. ‘Are you telling me the truth, you bastard?’ he said menacingly.
Steele nodded frantically, a thin line of white foam appearing on his lips. ‘I swear I am,’ he shrieked.
For a moment longer Shane held the poker threateningly and then he turned and threw it into the fireplace. Steele gave a great shudder of relief and fainted.