by Jack Higgins
Shane walked across to the bedroom door and unlocked it. The woman was huddled on the bed. As he switched on the light, she sat up.
‘I’m going now,’ he said. ‘You’d better see to your boy friend.’
‘What have you done to him?’ she demanded fearfully.
He shrugged. ‘He’ll be all right when you get him cleaned up.’
He returned to the living-room and she followed him slowly. There was a telephone on the table near the door and he ripped the flex from the connecting box on the wall and turned to the woman. ‘I wouldn’t try to get in touch with the police if I were you. I don’t think Reggie would like that. I’m taking the car. Tell him I’ll leave it outside the club.’ She nodded mutely and he closed the door softly behind him and went along the dark corridor.
There was little traffic about and he drove alone with his thoughts and the steady hum of the engine. His back was paining him slightly and he leaned forward, trying to ease it a little. As he followed the main road into town, he suddenly realized that he was coming into the suburb in which the Faulkners lived. He slowed down a little, his eyes searching for the side road and then he saw it and swung the wheel sharply.
He left the car at the kerb and walked up the drive towards the house. It seemed to be in darkness and he followed the path around the side of the house and came out into the back garden.
As he approached the studio he could see a light and then the Dobermann started to bark and the sound was hollow and lonely and far away. Shane mounted the steps and stood there shaking his head from side to side as the sound of the dog seemed to fade away completely and then Laura Faulkner was framed in the doorway, looking at him inquiringly, her lips moving, but no sound issuing from them.
Complete panic moved inside him and he stretched out a hand to her. She pulled him inside and led him across to the divan. He slumped down, head in hands and after a while sounds returned to him and he straightened up slowly and looked at her anxious face.
‘Just a dizzy spell,’ he said. ‘Nothing to get alarmed about.’
She dropped a hand on his shoulder. ‘But you’re wet through,’ she said. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’
He started to peel of his wet jacket. ‘I’ve had a slight accident. You’d better get the first-aid kit out.’
He pulled off his shirt and she gave a sudden exclamation of horror when she saw his back. ‘Martin, you’re bleeding.’
‘It’s nothing serious,’ he said. ‘Just a few shot-gun pellets. Get a pair of tweezers and some surgical tape.’
She disappeared into the small kitchen and came back a moment later with a bowl full of hot water and a tin box. She sat down beside him on the divan. ‘You need a doctor, Martin. It looks bad.’
He shook his head. ‘It seems worse than it is. Clean my back and get to work with the tweezers. There shouldn’t be many pellets there. I was lucky.’
As she gently cleaned away the blood with a flannel she said, ‘What happened?’
He shrugged wearily. ‘A difference of opinion with Reggie Steele. He was holed up in a cottage by the river at Hampton. When I got there he was pretty drunk. I told him I wanted those letters and he didn’t seem to think it was such a good idea. We had words - that’s where the shotgun came in - but I managed to make him see things my way in the end.’
She seemed to hesitate for a moment. ‘Have you got the letters with you?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll have them before long, though.’ He turned and smiled at her over his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, angel. All your troubles are over.’
For a moment she gazed at him with something suspiciously like tears trembling in her eyes and then she took a deep breath and said, ‘I’m going to use the tweezers now. I’ll try not to hurt you.’
As he felt the first, sharp stabbing pain, he stifled a groan. ‘How bad is it?’
‘You were right,’ she told him. ‘It’s nothing like as serious as it looked at first. There are three pellets a few inches apart, just under the skin.’ He chewed hard on the corner of a cushion while she got the pellets out. As she started to clean the wounds she said, ‘What happened to Reggie? Where is he now?’
‘Still at the cottage,’ he told her with a chuckle. ‘Last I saw of him, he was looking decidedly the worse for wear in more ways than one.’
She quickly fixed strips of surgical tape in position and then got to her feet. ‘You look all in,’ she said. ‘Lie back and put up your feet and I’ll make you a cup of coffee, then I’ll get you one of Dad’s shirts.’
Suddenly Shane felt tired. He gently eased his sore back against a couple of cushions and lit a cigarette. He could hear her moving about in the kitchen and somehow the sound was comforting and right.
After a while she came in with a tray and placed it on a stool beside him. As she poured coffee into two cups she said, ‘What do you intend to do next?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll go down to the club and get those letters. Do you want to come with me?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d like to, Martin, but it can’t be done. I daren’t leave my father on his own. He’s not been at all well these last few days.’
As she poured cream into the coffee she went on, ‘What will you do afterwards - about the other matter, I mean?’
Shane swallowed some of his coffee and sighed. ‘I don’t know, Laura. I don’t now at all. Time is running out for me, and somehow the things that seemed important are meaningless now.’
‘And what is important, Martin?’ she said softly.
‘You are,’ he said.
She was sitting on the end of the divan gazing out of the window and now she turned her head slowly and looked directly at him. She was wearing a cardigan in a soft pink wool that clung to the curve of her breast and a superbly tailored skirt that fitted her like a second skin.
For a long breathless moment they looked at each other and then she put down her cup and got to her feet. She moved forward and stood beside him and then her hand reached out to the lamp and the room was plunged into darkness.
He lay there, his throat dry and listened to the rustle of her clothing as she undressed and then she was in his arms, her supple body melting into him and as he covered her face with kisses he could taste the salt of her tears upon his lips.
He was aware that he had slept, but for how long it was impossible to judge. The room was in darkness and he was alone and yet a faint, elusive trace of her perfume still hung upon the warm air.
His hand found the switch of the table lamp and the darkness retreated into the corners of the room. Shane swung his legs to the floor and yawned. There was a bad taste in his mouth and his back was still sore. He glanced at his watch. It was only a few minutes after midnight so he couldn’t have slept for long.
He picked up his wet jacket and went to the door and opened it. When he went down the steps and walked up towards the house, the night air felt cold on his bare skin and he shivered and quickened his steps.
There was a light on in the kitchen and the Dobermann was curled up on a rug in a corner by the fire. He opened one eye and looked steadily at Shane for a moment and then closed it again, satisfied.
An airing rack festooned with various articles of laundry hung from the ceiling and Shane pulled down a white shirt and put it on quickly. It needed ironing badly, but it was clean and dry and he decided it would have to do him for the moment. He opened the other door and walked along the dark corridor which led towards the front of the house.
The hall was quiet and he walked towards the drawing-room door at the bottom of which a thin line of light showed and hesitated as he heard Laura speaking in a low voice. Very gently he turned the knob and opened the door.
She was standing facing him on the other side of a table, a telephone receiver in one hand. As he walked slowly forward she shook her head and said in a low voice, ‘No, he was asleep when I left him.’ And then she looked up and saw Shane.
Her face went pale and she quickly rep
laced the receiver in its cradle and forced a smile. ‘Why, Martin, I thought you were still asleep.’
He walked round the table and stood very close to her. ‘Who was that on the telephone just now?’
She shrugged. ‘Just a friend. It was nothing important.’
She started to walk away and Shane grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. ‘You were discussing me with someone. Who was it?’
Suddenly she was angry and she struggled to free herself. ‘You’re hurting my arm,’ she said.
He released her suddenly so that she fell back against the table. She massaged her arm gently with one hand and glared at him. ‘If you must know, I was speaking to Charles Graham about you.’
A sudden, cold rage erupted inside him. A rage that was compounded of disgust and loathing and bitter hurt. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘You’re lying.’
He slapped her heavily across the face and as she staggered back against the table, he moved forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘You’re going to tell me the truth,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of lies and deceits.’
She started to struggle, her fingers clawing at his face and then the door swung open and her father appeared. He was wearing a dressing-gown and carried a walking stick in one hand. He lurched forward, raising the stick above his head and then, as he aimed a blow at Shane’s head, he seemed to crumple at the knees and collapsed.
Shane lifted him in his arms and carried him across to the couch, all his rage evaporating. As he straightened up, Laura pushed him violently in the chest. ‘Get out,’ she screamed. ‘Get out and don’t come back. I never want to see you again.’
For a little while he stood staring into her face and then he turned without a word and walked out through the hall to the front door. She followed him and as he stepped on to the top step, the door slammed behind him and a bolt shot into place.
He stood there for a little while listening to her storm of weeping as she leaned against the other side of the door and then he walked down the drive towards the Daimler. His mind was completely frozen and he was only conscious of one thought. He was going to finish what he had started.
He drove fast on the way into town and as he turned the Daimler into the square and pulled up a few yards from the Garland Club, a church clock sounded one o'clock somewhere near at hand.
The fog was a little thicker and a steady drizzle was falling as he turned along the alley at the side of the club and moved towards the staff entrance. When he opened the door, the passage was deserted. He could hear the sound of voices from the kitchens and they were somehow muted and far away. He stood there for a moment listening and then he quickly mounted the back stairs to the first floor.
The corridor was deserted and he moved quickly along it to Steele’s office. The door was locked and he took out the keys he had taken from Steele and tried them one by one. Behind him a door opened and there was a sudden burst of laughter. He moved across into the side passage quickly and flattened himself against the wall.
It sounded like some of the girls from the show and he listened to their voices fade along the corridor. When all was still again he moved back to the door and started again. The second key he tried fitted the lock and in a moment he was inside the room.
He switched on the light and went across to the safe which stood in the far corner next to the window. He inserted the most obvious key into the lock and the heavy door swung open to his touch. He pushed the cash box to one side and stood up, the manilla envelope clutched in his hands.
It was addressed in clear, rather feminine handwriting, to Henry Faulkner and Shane inserted a thumb under the flap to tear it open. At that moment he heard steps approaching along the corridor. He slipped the letter into his pocket and moved across the room quickly. He flattened himself against the wall a bare second before there was a knock on the door and it opened.
The man who had been on duty in the foyer on the first night Shane had visited the club, walked into the room. He was wearing a dinner jacket and carried a sheaf of papers in his hand. He frowned, his eyes travelling rapidly over the room and Shane took a quick step forward and smashed his fist into the unprotected jawline. As the man sank to the floor with a low groan Shane closed the door quietly and walked rapidly along the corridor.
When he emerged into the alley, the rain had increased into a solid downpour. He moved towards the square and halted under the lamp that lighted the alley. His pulse was racing with excitement and he was filled with elation. He took out the manilla envelope, and tore open the flap.
He withdrew several sheets of paper. He unfolded the first one and held it up to the light of the lamp. It was filled with the same, rather feminine handwriting that he had first seen on the envelope and there was a heading at the top of the sheet - The True Facts Concerning The Death of Simon Faulkner.
Shane frowned and held the paper a little closer to his eyes. As he started to read, there was a faint movement behind him. Even as he turned, something thudded against the back of his neck, sending a wave of agony flooding into his brain to explode in a cascade of coloured lights.
The cobbles rose to meet him as he fell and he raised an arm to cover his face protectingly. There was no further blow. Someone stepped over him and the papers were plucked out of his hand and as Shane tried to struggle to his feet, his attacker disappeared into the fog, his club foot sliding over the wet pavement behind him.
Shane dragged himself up by the lamp-post and leaned against it, his head swimming. One thing above all others drummed its way insistently into his brain. The man with the club foot existed. He was real and not a phantasy conceived in the nightmare of his years of agony. He lurched towards the end of the alley as an engine coughed into life and a moment later, a car moved away through the fog. He slammed a hand against the wall in impotent fury and stayed there for a little while until he felt better.
He started to walk along the pavement, a peculiar deadness creeping through his limbs and the sounds of the traffic through the fog seemed to recede and grow still, leaving him alone in a vacuum of quiet. As he turned the corner into the main road, the pain moved inside his skull and he cried aloud in agony and grabbed for some iron railings.
It was worse - worse than he had ever known and he remembered what the specialist had told him. Severe pains, growing progressively worse heralded the final crisis and he moaned aloud in fear and staggered across the road to a taxi rank.
He gave the driver Jenny Green’s address and crouched in the back seat, his head in his hands. When they reached the flat he thrust a pound note into the driver’s hand and went up the drive towards the front door.
The stairs stretched into eternity and he went up them painfully on his hands and knees, clawing at the banister for support. When he reached the landing, he pulled himself upright and lurched across to the door.
It swung open to his touch and he managed to open his mouth and croak, ‘Jenny?’
A hand grabbed him by the shoulders and he was hurled violently across the room. He tripped over a chair and fell heavily to the floor and as he closed his eyes against the white hot pain that moved behind them, he heard the slow dragging of the club foot as the limping man crossed the room. The door clicked softly as he went out and a moment later, Shane heard him descending the stairs.
He lay with his head pillowed against the carpet, hands tightly clenched together and it was with an effort that he finally opened his eyes.
There was blood on the carpet, a great wide, irregular stain and he stared at it in puzzlement and then struggled to his knees. His brain was going round in circles and he couldn’t concentrate, but there was something wrong. There was something very wrong.
He turned his head slowly. There was blood everywhere, even on the walls as if some animal had been butchered. He tried to get up and fell forward on his face and his hand knocked against something hard. Lying on the floor in front of him was a razor sharp Ghurka kukri that he remembered had hung over the fireplace
as an ornament. His fingers closed around the handle and he stared at the blood smeared blade dumbly and then a terrible light burst upon him and he cried out sharply, ‘Jenny! Jenny, where are you?’
He found her in the other room sprawled across the bed. Her throat had been cut and her body was horribly mutilated. He stood at the side of the bed looking down at her and then a great wave of pain flooded through him and he fell across the bed beside her.
He was still lying there when the police found him, the kukri firmly clenched in his right hand.
14
IT was raining when the police van turned in through the goods entrance of the station. The driver backed it against the end of the platform and Lomax jumped down from the cab and walked along the side of the vehicle. He clambered up on the platform and unlocked the rear door.
Shane stepped out flanked by two detectives. He was handcuffed to one of them by the right wrist and his coat was thrown loosely over his shoulders. The train was already in the station and they were standing opposite the guard’s van. Shane smiled ironically and turned to Lomax. ‘How long have we got?’
Lomax glanced at his watch. ‘About ten minutes. How do you feel?’
Shane grinned. ‘Like a cigarette.’
His face was pale and drawn in the lamplight. He drew gratefully on the cigarette that Lomax pushed into his mouth and sighed. ‘That tastes good.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I suppose almost everything does at this stage in a man’s life.’
Lomax frowned. ‘I wouldn’t think about it too much, if I were you. Perhaps this operation will be a success. Sir George Hammond is supposed to be the finest brain surgeon in Europe. A week from tonight you’ll probably be lying in a bed in that hospital alive and kicking and wondering why you worried so much.’
‘And afterwards you’ll be able to send me for trial and have me hanged for a murder I didn’t do,’ Shane said. ‘What a lovely prospect.’
Lomax shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s much danger of that.’