by John Creasey
They left the city’s residential quarters soon afterwards, and drew within sight of the airport and seaplane base, near one another on the estuary of the Guan. A British flying-boat of the Imperia class was waiting at anchor, a mammoth creation floating easily on the calm waters. A launch fussed away from her. A little farther along, at another anchorage, was a second boat of the same type, and an Overseas Airways official came up.
‘Farther along, gentlemen, please.’
They pulled up outside the entrance to the berth for the second boat, but as they went they heard a voice from behind them. They climbed from the taxi and looked round, seeing a man they did not know approaching them. But Brian was less interested in the stranger than in a second man, waiting by the side of a car which had just drawn up.
‘My oath!’ he exclaimed. ‘Stefan, we needn’t go, there’s the Marquis!’
Chapter Thirteen
Brian Finds Himself Alone
The stranger drew alongside them, and an official at the berth where the flying-boat was waiting asked them to lose no time. Andromovitch turned to apologise; they had been delayed, and would not be able to catch the boat.
Brian was talking to the stranger. Drawing nearer, the Russian heard the newcomer say formally:
‘Yes, please, Mr. Debenham. At the Hotel d’Orianto, in perhaps an hour’s time.’
‘All right,’ said Brian. He waited and watched the stranger approach the Marquis, who showed no sign of recognising Brian, then turned to Stefan. ‘We don’t know him officially, but he’ll be at the Orlanto in about an hour. Stefan, that was a break!’
‘Ye-es,’ said Andromovitch quietly. ‘And also it saves us considerable time. Sap will be surprised.’
‘And pleased,’ said Brian. ‘I wonder—’ He stopped abruptly, his voice rising. ‘Stefan, do you see that?’
As he broke off a car which had been standing close to the airport buildings moved with some speed towards that awaiting the Marquis. The stranger who had brought the message to Brian had passed the older man, showing no sign of recognition, and obviously making sure, or trying to make sure, that there was no connection between the Marquis and the two men who had come from the Hotel del Roso. As he passed, the second car drew alongside and out jumped two men, one brandishing a gun.
‘My oath!’ breathed Brian.
He put his hand to his pocket for his automatic, but, fast as he moved, he could not work fast enough. The second car now blocked the Marquis from his view. There was a shot, and some shouting, while officials ran towards the cars and police and customs officers followed them.
Brian ran desperately towards the scene.
The men who had jumped from the second car returned to it; they were not alone, for they carried the slim, inert body of the Marquis. They bundled him into the tonneau and followed, and the car started off again. Two men had tried to make a barrier at the gateway into the road, but two shots sent them scuttling, and the car crashed through an erection of boxes, hastily thrown by the police, and turned right, towards the city.
Brian fired, twice.
Both of his bullets missed, and he knew that further shooting was useless. The hum of a car close behind him made him jump, and turning he saw that it was the taxi, with Andromovitch outlined in the tonneau window.
‘Come!’ called the Russian urgently.
The car slowed down enough for Brian to make a running leap on the side. He clung to it, and Andromovitch opened the door so that he could get inside. The taxi-driver, obviously bribed by the Russian to great exertions, swung through the gates and on the road in the wake of the kidnappers.
Another car followed the taxi.
Brian did not see who was driving it, but imagined that it was the man who had brought the message. He had no doubt as to who was in the fourth car to swing out of the airport: police, with rifles and automatics, were standing on the running-boards and crowded together in the seats. It was an open tourer, a Bianca, and the engine roared with the muffled power of a Bentley.
‘We were slow,’ said Stefan quietly. ‘Too slow, Brian.’
‘Damn it, we must get him!’
‘We can try,’ said Stefan. He sat back in his corner as the taxi swayed along the wide road. He saw a fork, and a few seconds afterwards the kidnappers’ car swung left. Obviously it was going to avoid the city proper, and take one of the roads leading to the hills and the outlying residential quarters.
They were gaining on it.
So was the car behind them, a powerful Hispano. Stefan glanced out of the window and saw it creeping towards them. The road grew steep, and now the engine of the taxi was spluttering, the effort too much for it. Stefan leaned forward and opened the door, saying softly: ‘We change horses in midstream, Brian.’
Before the Englishman could comment Stefan was standing on the running-board of the taxi. The limousine drew alongside, and for a few seconds they went bonnet and bonnet. Quite calmly and coolly Stefan stepped from the taxi to the running-board of the limousine. He made it seem so simple that Brian gasped; and he even waved, as if beckoning Brian.
The limousine continued to gain.
Brian followed Stefan to the running-board, but as he reached it the driver of the limousine put on an extra burst of speed. To step off then would be to invite disaster. Brian held back, tight-lipped, while first the limousine went past, and then the police-car. Beyond them he could see the first car taking a bend in the road. He fancied that he could hear the tyres screaming.
His driver turned in his seat and gesticulated wildly.
Brian sat fuming, wondering whether it was worth continuing the chase, but unwilling to tell his man to stop. There was an outside chance that he would be able to do something, he decided, and he sat tensely on the edge of his seat.
Round the bend he saw the three cars ahead of him going fast up the wide, white ribbon of road towards the top of one of the seven hills. The police-car was a long way behind Andromovitch and the limousine, but that car seemed to be drawing very close to the Marquis.
It was a queer sight to Brian.
He watched intently, his teeth clamped together and his hands clenched. While he watched he saw a puff of smoke appear on the road just behind Stefan’s car. It meant nothing to him then, but a second puff, still farther behind, heralded a faint report, and the driver of the taxi trod heavily on his brakes.
A third puff came from the road just in front of the police-car.
This time the report was louder, and Brian knew what it was: someone was throwing hand-grenades. His head was jolted against the roof of the cab as he craned his neck to see more, but he was almost oblivious to it. He saw the police-car swerve violently across the road, and then another puff; the smoke seemed to come from the Bianca itself.
The grenades were being lobbed from a clump of trees and bushes on the side of the road. The taxi being at a standstill, Brian could see more clearly, and caught a glimpse of a man sprawling forward as he tossed another missile. On the opposite side there was a steep bank, leading towards tilled land and some orange groves and then to the river.
The Bianca toppled slowly over on one side.
Brian’s driver was shouting at the top of his voice, pointing towards the scene turning and mouthing at Brian, his face livid with excitement. Brian sat quite still, as if paralysed for those few moments. The fate of the occupants of the police-car if it toppled over the edge was clear for all to see, and although he felt like shouting to the police to get out, he realised subconsciously that they had no time to move, while probably some of them had been hurt in the earlier explosions.
Gently, the Bianca continued to topple. Then it gained momentum.
The taxi-driver’s harangue reached an ear-splitting climax, and Brian opened the door, ducked, and jumped to the road. He ran uphill, while the overloaded car toppled over and over down the slope. Men spilled from it, and were flung on either side; and some lay motionless.
Far out of sight, the other two cars cont
inued the chase.
Brian drew near the clump of trees. He saw two men crouching in them, peering towards the valley as if gloating over their triumph. The temptation to shoot them, and they were easy targets, was almost overwhelming. He kept it in check, and stepped off the road. He could no longer run uphill, but walking on the grass was easier, and what was more important he was able to approach in silence. He heard a muttering of voices, then the two men left the trees and moved hurriedly away.
The bush-strewn slope had been an ideal place in which to trail his quarry, but soon the bushes grew more sparsely, and Brian had to come into the open. But the two men did not look round, and gave no hint that they knew they were being followed. They were small men, talking little now, going quickly but giving no impression of haste.
The terrain altered, growing rocky in patches. Giant cacti grew high about the walkers, the earth was dusty through lack of rain. After a while the two men crossed the brow of the hill, and Brian hurried to the top, to make sure that they did not evade him on the other side.
Reaching the top, he stared beneath him, stopping in his tracks and putting a hand to his eyes, amazed.
The hillside was empty of human beings; and there was nothing either near or large enough for either of the men to hide behind. All he could see were a few prickly cacti, smaller than those he had passed, some stunted beech or birch trees, some tall yellow grass, coarse and burned-looking, and pale, arid, rock-strewn soil stretching beneath him. Some two miles away he saw large buildings, some with glass roofs, and recognised the casino at Torvil amongst them. But the gaming suburb of Orlanto was far away.
‘Confound it!’ exclaimed Brian, ‘they didn’t disappear into thin air.’
To the far left there was a small copse, but the two men had not had time to reach this. Brian frowned, bewildered, fast reaching the conclusion that they had disappeared through a hole in the ground: no other explanation fitted the facts. Lengthening his stride, he went towards the copse, which offered shelter from which he could watch the barren hillside; that things of interest would emerge seemed certain.
He slaked his thirst at a bubbling spring, then stretched himself full length, determined to watch until he saw something which might yield results. He smoked a cigarette, but the hot wind made smoking unpleasant, and he stayed there doing nothing for more than an hour.
He narrowed his eyes when he thought of the Marquis, and his heart beat a little faster at the thought of Andromovitch in hot pursuit; no fool, the Russian, and next to Palfrey the best of them all.
Then a movement made him turn.
He put his hand to his hip-pocket for his gun, for the movement startled him, and all the time he had been aware of the possibility of being watched in turn. He saw no one for some seconds, and then decided that he did not need his gun, for the footsteps were steady, light like a woman’s, and in no way stealthy. He stood up, dusting down the seat and thighs of his trousers, and peering curiously towards the sound.
A man came into sight.
Brian narrowed his eyes, and then pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. He had thought ‘man’, but the little creature coming towards him was not worthy of the word. Short, barely as high as Brian’s shoulder, he was dressed in a suit of brilliant blue, a new suit with squared shoulders and an exaggerated wasp waist. Although he must have walked a considerable distance to reach the spot, his brown shoes shone brightly, and the sun glistened on the oil which kept his dark hair in perfect order, so that the wind did not stir it.
He saw Brian and drew nearer.
‘Good day, señor’ he said, and came to a stop a yard from Brian, who towered over him. ‘You are, of course, Señor Debenham.’
Brian stared, more amazed that the man knew his name than amused by his appearance. He did not know whether it was wise to answer ‘yes’, and he moved his right hand so that in emergency he could reach his automatic.
‘The señor need have no fears,’ said the little man, as a gust of wind brought a scent of flowers from his bepowdered face. ‘I am Pedro. Not long since, Señor Palfrey charged me with a task. Señor Debenham knows of that?’
Brian took his hand away from his pocket.
‘Pedro? From the del Roso?’
‘Si, señor.’ All the time Pedro had spoken in Catanese, and not once had his little face changed expression. ‘I follow Señor Rollo Clive. Yesterday—last night—and today.’
Brian snapped: ‘And Clive came here?’
‘Yes, señor,’ said Pedro, raising a hand. ‘But not alone, and not willingly. Three times I followed him, and each time he went to a house in Orlanto, but was driven away. He made a fourth call, and then was admitted. Afterwards, early this morning, he was carried here in a bullock cart. I feel grieved for Señor Clive.’
Brian said roughly: ‘Was he dead?’
Another expressive shrug, implying ‘I do not know’, and then Pedro said quietly: ‘Dead, or unconscious, señor. They brought him here, and I followed, until—Dios, I am trying to understand it now. One moment he was in my sight, the next he was gone. How was it arranged, señor, that is what I wish to know?’
Chapter Fourteen
Van Hoysen Sends Word of his Safety
‘And Pedro isn’t the only one who wants to know,’ declared Brian, brushing the palm of his hand across his hair and looking worriedly into Palfrey’s eyes. ‘I’ve left him there to hold a watching brief. He’s an odd little customer; d’you think he’ll be all right?’
‘Drusilla trusted him,’ said Palfrey. ‘I don’t think we need worry.’
Brian stared at him, and then snorted.
‘You don’t think we need! Great Scott, what are you made of—cold stone all through? You haven’t turned a hair since I came in; you take it as calmly as if I’d told you we’d missed the boat. Has it registered. The Marquis has been kidnapped!’
‘And Stefan is after him,’ said Palfrey quietly.
He took his pipe from his pocket and began to fill it. The early afternoon sun was not shining into the window, but it was hot in the room, and there was no breath of air. Brilliant sunlight shone in the street outside, and on to the houses on the other side of the boulevard. The sound of traffic, of voices, and the hawkers crying their wares floated into the room, as from a far distance.
His pipe filled, Palfrey went on: ‘Brian, if Stefan gets manhandled and joins the Marquis, there isn’t a thing we can do about it now. We can get after them later, but we can do nothing until we’ve given Stefan a chance to report. Even when he’s reported, we’re going to depend on Drusilla, who knows other agents than Pedro and can get us some help. A great deal depends on Drusilla,’ he added slowly.
Deliberately he changed the subject, lighting his pipe but watching Brian through the first wisps of smoke. He saw the younger man frown, smooth his hair again, and then fling himself into an easy-chair. A spring groaned under the impact.
Glancing towards the door of the passage, Brian suddenly glimpsed the corner of a slip of paper or an envelope poking through. Palfrey, following his gaze, stood up abruptly and tiptoed to the door. He opened it swiftly.
A swift movement in the passage followed.
A small, ragged man was turning towards the stairs, thin-faced, wild-eyed. Sight of Palfrey, closely followed by Brian, frightened him. He gasped, and turned to run in the opposite direction.
Brian’s stride lengthened. There was no scuffle; Brian shot out a hand and gripped the man by the back of the neck. His jerk almost sent the fellow off his feet, and brought forth a frightened squeal.
‘Be quiet!’ hissed Brian.
He hustled the other through the door. The man stood trembling but saying nothing.
Palfrey said: ‘Phe-ew! It’s all right, Brian. Van H. is in town.’ He looked at the ragged messenger, who immediately burst into a torrent of excited explanation which meant nothing at all to Palfrey but told the other that he had met a man in the street, and for a silver piece had promised to deliver the letter. He ha
d meant no harm, he assured the señors, he was a good man.
Brian smiled at him, unexpectedly, and spoke in Catanese.
‘That’s all right, we wanted the message.’ He took his hand from his pocket and revealed two English half-crowns. ‘How do you like the look of these?’
‘Señor!’ the man gasped. ‘Señor!’
He took the coins, bowed, crossed himself, bowed again and backed towards the door.
Palfrey held out the note, and Brian read it quickly. It was brief and laconic, stating that van H. would be calling after dark and that he hoped someone would be there to meet him.
‘Thank the Lord he’s safe,’ said Brian, as he finished. ‘He obviously doesn’t want to be seen by day.’
‘No-o. Which means he thinks he’s a marked man. We’re having a nice time, one way and the other. I shall be glad when we hear from Stefan.’
‘I’d have given a fortune to have jumped that car with him,’ said Brian ruefully. ‘Oh, well, it’s no use wishing for the moon.’
‘No, we want the Marquis,’ said Palfrey. ‘We want the Marquis very badly, but we have to leave him to Stefan. I wonder - ’ he eyed Brian thoughtfully - ’I wonder if the same men who attacked you in England sent word that he was on his way to Orlanto. Worth thinking about?’
‘By George it is!’ exclaimed Brian. ‘Damn it, Sap, when will we see any light in this affair?’
‘When we hear from Stefan,’ said Palfrey quietly.
As Palfrey was speaking, Stefan Andromovitch was watching a small white house set on a hillside twenty miles or more beyond Orlanto and on the outskirts of the village of Salvater.