Jack Higgins - East Of Desolation

by East Of Desolation [lit]

  "Fine, Miss Rasmussen. I was with him last on the day before yesterday."

  He was obviously astonished to see her, but before he could carry on I said quickly, "And not since then? Wasn't there some mail for him on the boat yesterday afternoon?"

  "I wouldn't know," he said. "The boat was delayed by fog and didn't get in till late last night, so I haven't got around to sorting out the mail yet. It's still in the bag at the store."

  "That's fine," I said. "When you open up I think you'll find a package addressed to Gudrid care of her grandfather. We can save you a trip."

  "But I don't understand." He was by now completely bewildered.

  "You don't need to. Just turn the boat round and we'll follow you in."

  He gave up, shrugged and went back to the stern of his dinghy. While he busied himself starting the motor I gave Desforge and Ilana the substance of what had been said.

  "What happens when you've got your hands on the sparklers?" Desforge asked.

  "We'll borrow Bergsson's old jeep and ride up to Olaf Rasmussen's place and warn him what's in the offing. We should be able to provide some sort of reception committee for Vogel and his friends. Olaf usually has half a dozen Eskimo shepherds around the place and they can revert to the ways of their forefathers awfully fast if anyone starts baring his teeth at them."

  Gudrid shook her head. "But my grandfather will be on his own at the moment, Mr. Martin, surely you haven't forgotten. At this time in the season the shepherds will be away in the hills searching out the sheep, preparing them for the drive down to the valley." She turned to Ilana. "Four more weeks--- five at the most and winter begins and always so quickly that we are caught unawares."

  "All right, so we go up and get him out of there before they arrive."

  I started the engine and Desforge patted the barrel of the Winchester. "I could certainly give them one hell of a surprise with this from the loft of that barn. Hell, they'd be sitting ducks when they drove into the farmyard."

  With a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, the Winchester across his knees and the tousled hair falling across his forehead, the reckless gleam in his eyes, he looked too much like a still from one of his own pictures for comfort.

  I said shortly, "Don't be bloody stupid, Jack, we aren't on Stage 6 now. This is for real. People die, they don't just pick themselves up off the floor at the end and take a vacation till the next script comes along."

  He blazed with anger, hands tightening on the gun. "I wasn't play-acting in the rear turret of that B.29, you limey bastard. Thirty-one trips and then I got a slug through the thigh and that was for real. I got medals, baby. What did they ever give you?"

  I could have said that I had medals too, whatever that proved, only in my case I'd been only too anxious to forget the whole stupid senseless business as soon as possible, but I didn't. There wouldn't have been any point. I don't even think he'd have understood what I was trying to say. I had a brief glimpse of Ilana's face out of the corner of my eye, shocked and for some inexplicable reason, frightened and I pushed up the throttle slowly and went after the dinghy.

  .....

  The constraint between Desforge and myself overshadowed everything, diminishing even the excitement of the moment when Bergsson found the package in the mailbag and passed it to Gudrid. She tore off the outer wrapping and disclosed a cardboard shoebox carefully sealed with Scotch tape.

  "This is exactly as it was when Arnie gave it to me," she said.

  I took out a clasp knife and cut round the lid quickly. It contained a grey canvas money belt, each separate pouch bulging. I opened one and spilled a couple of the uncut gems into the palm of my hand.

  "So that's what they look like?" Desforge said.

  I nodded. "Before the experts get to work on them." I replaced the stones in their pouch, buckled the belt around my waist and turned to Bergsson. "Is it all right if we borrow your jeep?"

  "Certainly." He sensed, that something unusual was going on, so much was obvious and added awkwardly, "Look, if there's anything I can do."

  "I don't think so."

  Desforge broke in harshly. "We're wasting time. Let's get out of here."

  He stalked outside and I paused at the door beside Ilana. "What's eating him, for God's sake?"

  She looked worried. "I don't know--- sometimes he gets like this, nervous and irrational, flaring up into a sudden rage at nothing at all. Perhaps he needs a drink."

  "More likely he's had too many for too long," I said sourly and went outside.

  Desforge was sitting at the wheel of the jeep, the rifle beside him and he glared up at me belligerently. "Any objections?"

  "Suit yourself."

  I climbed into the rear seat. Ilana hesitated, obviously torn between us, but Gudrid solved the problem by getting into the passenger seat beside Desforge.

  "Well make your mind up," he said irritably. "Are you coming or aren't you?"

  She didn't reply--- just got into the rear seat beside me and stared straight in front of her, hands tightly clasped as we drove away.

  .....

  The rain was lifting a little now, not too much, but increasing visibility to fifty yards or so as we followed the winding dirt road up the hill. The slope below us dropped steeply to the fjord and was covered by alder scrub with here and there clumps of willow and birch up to ten feet high. On the right-hand side Iceland poppies showed scarlet among lichen covered rocks and there were alpines and saxifrage--- even buttercups, so that it might have been the Tyrol on a misty morning after rain.

  Desforge was driving too fast considering the conditions, but I was damned if I was going to tell him that. I didn't get much of a chance anyway because when we were about halfway up the hill, the hotel Land-Rover came round a bend and rushed towards us at what seemed a terrifying speed in those conditions.

  There was a moment when everything seemed to stop, the whole scene frozen like a still picture and then Desforge swung the wheel of the old jeep without even attempting to brake and took the left-hand side of the track as the Land-Rover skidded to a halt. There couldn't have been more than a foot in it as we went by and our offside rear wheel spun wildly, seeking a grip on thin air.

  The jeep dipped sideways, spilling me over the edge and I tucked my head into my shoulder and yelled as I hit the dirt and rolled down the slope through the scrub.

  As I scrambled to my feet, the jeep roared like an angry lion and regained the road in a shower of dirt and gravel and Desforge braked to a halt. Behind him the Land-Rover was already reversing and Stratton stood up and grabbed the edge of the windscreen, an automatic ready in his hand.

  He loosed off a wild shot and I shouted. "For God's sake get moving. Get the women out of here. Make for the farm."

  Desforge had enough sense not to argue and the jeep vanished into the rain as the Land-Rover braked to a halt above me. Stratton shouted something, but I couldn't catch what it was and then he jumped for the slope, landing thirty or forty feet above me in a shower of stones, the automatic ready in his right hand. As the Land-Rover took off after the jeep, I turned and ran for my life, ploughing through the alder head-down as he fired twice.

  Branches whipped against my face as I scrambled through a grove of birches and then I stumbled and fell again, turning on my back and going down in the rain, riding a bank of scree in a long breathless slide that ended on a beach right at the edge, of the fjord.

  I picked myself up and staggered along the shingle, collapsing into the temporary safety of a horseshoe of black rocks. For a moment only as I lay there I might have been a twelve-year-old lying on a Scottish shore on some forgotten morning, my face against the pebbles. And these were the same as they are on most beaches the world over. Typical chalcedony. Translucent red Carnelian, brown and red jasper, banded onyx and agate.

  My fingers hooked into them and I lay there, hardly daring to breathe, listening for the sound of his pursuit, but there was nothing. Only the rustle of the wind as it moved down from t
he mountains pushing the rain before it and the quiet lapping of the water.

  .....

  I waited five minutes and then moved along the shore to a point which was, as far as I could judge, directly beneath the farmhouse. I was pretty certain of my ground because at this point a great granite crag jutted from the hillside and I went up one side of it, making much faster time than I would had I stuck to the scrub.

  At this height there was still some fog, but it was thinning rapidly now, swirling around me in strange, menacing shapes. My heart was pounding like a trip-hammer and there was blood in my mouth as I heaved myself over a shelf of rock and crouched on top of the crag. There was a grove of willow trees to the rear, the hillside lifting beyond to the south meadow below Rasmussen's farm.

  I took a deep breath, pushed myself to my feet and started forward. At the same moment Stratton stood up from behind a boulder on the edge of the crag and said in a perfectly normal tone as if we were good friends who had somehow missed each other, "Ah, there you are, old chap."

  As I started to turn he fired and the bullet shattered my wrist, the mark of a real pro who knows that a dying man might still be able to get a shot off at him, whereas a man with a broken wrist can't.

  It's true what they say--- when a bullet hits you, you don't feel any real pain, not at first. Only a sort of stunning blow delivered with the force of a blunt instrument swung by a rather large man, but the shock effect on the central nervous system is pretty considerable, driving the breath from your body like a kick in the belly.

  I fell down, rolling on my face and fought for air. He stayed there at the edge, a slight fixed smile on his face. "I've been watching you for quite some time actually. Remarkable view from up here, even allowing for the fog." He shook his head. "You shouldn't have joined, old chap."

  No shooting from the waist or any of that nonsense. His right hand swung up as he took deliberate aim and I screamed aloud, "Don't be a fool, Stratton, I know where the emeralds are!"

  He hesitated fractionally, lowering the automatic and I scrambled to one knee, my left hand clawing into the dirt. As I came up, I let him have a handful right in the face. He ducked, an arm swinging up instinctively, took a short step backwards and went over the edge.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The bones of my wrist had fragmented, I could tell that by the way they grated together when I wound a handkerchief around it in an attempt to stop the bleeding. It still wasn't hurting, not yet. That would come later and I tucked my hand inside my flying jacket and scrambled up the hill.

  As I went through the fence at the top and started across the south meadow, a shot echoed flatly through the fog and two more sounded in reply. I put my head down and ran, ducking behind the grey stone wall that was the northern boundary, keeping to its shelter until I came to the farm.

  Another shot sounded from the open door of the loft in the barn and two more were fired in reply from the house. I hurried back the way I had come and the moment the farmhouse was out of sight scrambled over the wall and approached from the rear.

  The yard by the back door was deserted, but by this time I wasn't caring too much anyway because my wrist was beginning to hurt like hell, the pain crawling up my arm like some living thing.

  I ran across the yard, head-down, expecting a bullet in the back at any second, but nothing happened and then I was at the door and it opened to receive me.

  I didn't stop running until I cannoned into the wall on the other side of the kitchen. Behind me, the door closed and a bolt was rammed home: When I turned, wiping sweat from my eyes with my left hand, Da Gama was standing facing me.

  .....

  When I was pushed into the hall, I found Vogel crouched at the shattered window, a revolver in his hand, Sarah Kelso flattened against the wall beside him. Rasmussen lay on the table, eyes closed, blood on his head and Ilana and Gudrid were at his side.

  Vogel looked me over calmly. "What happened to Stratton?"

  "He tried to get down to the beach the hard way. I wouldn't count on seeing him again if I were you."

  Another bullet shattered the window and everyone hit the floor. I crawled over to Ilana and held out my wrist. "Do what you can with this, will you? What happened here?"

  She pulled a silk scarf from her neck and bound my wrist tightly. "When we got here Jack told us to get in the house. He said he was going to ambush them from the loft in the barn."

  "What went wrong?"

  "They came in the back way. Stupid, but there it is."

  "This can't be his day for clear thinking," I said. "What about Rasmussen?"

  "He tried to tackle Vogel and Da Gama hit him over the head with his gun."

  Two more bullets smashed through the window, one of them ploughing into the floor and Gudrid screamed. Vogel turned towards me, his back to the wall as he reloaded his revolver, a smear of blood on his cheek.

  "I think we've had enough of this nonsense. Come here, Miss Eytan." She hesitated and he nodded to Da Gama who flung her forward. Vogel caught her by the hair, wrenched back her head and touched the barrel of his revolver to her temple. "Mr. Martin," he said evenly. "Go outside and tell Desforge I'll blow out his lady friend's brains if he doesn't come out of that barn within the next two minutes."

  I didn't even get a chance to think it over because Da Gama dragged me to my feet, opened the door and shoved me outside. I dropped to one knee and a bullet chipped the wall beside the doorpost. From then on, he obviously recognised me and I stumbled across the yard shouting his name.

  As I ran into the entrance of the barn, he appeared at the edge of the loft above my head and standing up there in his old parka, the Winchester ready for action, he wasn't Jack Desforge any more. He was that other, legendary figure who had always seemed so much larger than life. As he dropped to the floor and moved towards me, I had the strange illusion that this was somehow a scene we had played many times before.

  And when he spoke, it might have been dialogue straight off page fifty-seven of some script that had been specially written for him--- the kind of film he had made a score of times.

  "You don't look too good, kid. What happened?"

  I told him about Stratton. "But that doesn't matter now. You've got to come in, Jack. Vogel swears he'll kill Ilana if you don't and I got a strong impression that he means it."

  He nodded briefly, a strange remote look in his eyes as if his mind was elsewhere. "Okay, kid, if that's what you want. How do we know he won't pick us off on our way across the yard?"

  "We find that out in next week's episode."

  "I can't wait that long." He went out through the open door in three or four strides and dropped the Winchester on the ground. "Okay, Vogel, you win."

  For one wild moment I expected to see him go down under a fusillade of bullets. He stood there for a while, hands on hips as if waiting for something, and then the door across the yard opened and Vogel came out pushing Ilana in front of him.

  Sarah Kelso followed, Da Gama at her heels, but there was no sign of Gudrid who had presumably stayed with the old man. We all met in the middle of the yard in a kind of awkward silence.

  Vogel spoke first. "The emeralds, please, Mr. Martin.

  I hesitated and Desforge said, and it was as if he was somehow in command, "Give them to him, Joe."

  I unstrapped the belt and tossed it across. Vogel hefted it in his hand, face quite calm. "A long wait."

  Ilana moved suddenly to join Desforge and me and swung to face the Austrian. "And what happens now, Mr. Vogel? Do we get what you gave Arnie Fassberg?"

  Vogel smiled gently. "My dear Miss Eytan, like most determined sinners, I'm quite prepared to carry the burden of my own misdeeds, but I certainly object to being made responsible for someone else's. I don't know who killed the unfortunate Mr. Fassberg, but it certainly wasn't me or any of my associates."

  There was no reason for him to lie, none at all and Ilana turned and stared at me blankly. "But who, Joe? Who else could it have been?"
<
br />   "Only one person I can think of," I said. "The person who told him about the emeralds in the first place."

  Sarah Kelso seemed to shrink visibly, the skin tightening across her cheeks, a hand going to her mouth involuntarily as she took a hurried step backwards. "Oh, no--- never in a thousand years."

  "But it had to be you," I said. "There is no one else."

  For a long moment she seemed to be struck dumb and it was Desforge who spoke, his voice quiet and calm and very, very tired.

  "Sure there was, kid, there was me. She found that letter at the Fredericsmut, remember? The one from Milt Gold. She knew I'd reached the end of the line. The night you came back from the ice-cap; the night she was really certain for the first time that Arnie had made a fool of her, she brought me out here to the barn. I thought it was just for a tumble in the hay, but there was more to it than that--- a lot more. If I could squeeze the emeralds out of Arnie we could split them fifty-fifty and clear out in my boat."