Touch The Devil

by Jack Higgins

  “What about this?” Devlin looked around him.

  “Oh, I’ll get all the footage I need of this business tonight. I’d intended to return to Paris Tuesday, anyway.”

  Devlin turned to Fox and nodded. “She could be very useful.”

  Fox said, “All right, Miss Audin. We’ll see you at Heathrow in the morning. No later than ten o’clock, if you don’t mind. I’ll see to your ticket for you. We’ll meet at the entrance to the International Lounge.”

  “Good,” she said and kissed Devlin gravely on each cheek. “Thank you, Liam. And now, I must work, I think.”

  She walked toward the cameras. At the head of the line at the canteen someone was being violently sick.

  “Jesus Mary,” Devlin said. “The one thing in this life that turns my stomach. Let’s get out of it,” and they hurried back to the car.

  Salter led the way up a flight of narrow wooden stairs covered in cheap linoleum. The landing was long and narrow, and he opened a door at the end and switched on the light. Barry went in after him, humping the two suitcases, then put them down. There was a double bed with a brass frame, a wardrobe, a dressing table in Victorian mahogany, and a marble washstand. “You’ll be nicely out of the way here,” Salter said. “The back stairs are very handy. I’m at the front of the house myself. Just you and Jenny back here.” He smiled weakly. “I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll look at the boat first thing, then I’ll take you up to the farm to meet the others.”

  He backed out, closing the door, and Barry took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. He stood frowning at himself in the cracked mirror above the washstand. There was something wrong. It spoke aloud in the girl’s silence, in Salter’s sly eyes.

  “An unreliable sod if ever I’ve seen one,” Barry said to himself and went to the door and turned the key.

  He undressed, got into bed with only the lamp switched on, and sat propped against the pillows smoking and considering the job in hand. It was really very simple. Stop the truck, put the Germans and their escort out of action, drive down to Marsh End with the rocket pod, load it onto the boat Salter had arranged, and put to sea for the rendezvous with the Russian trawler later that night. Absurdly simple. So much so that something was bound to go wrong.

  He lit another cigarette, and at the same moment watched the door knob turn slowly. He reached for the Ceska and was across the room in an instant, turning the key. He wrenched open the door to see Jenny walking back along the passage. She was barefoot and wore a white cotton nightdress, a shawl about her shoulders.

  She turned and stared at him dumbly, her eyes taking in the gun in his hand. Yet she showed no reaction—no reaction at all. He stood to one side, and she crept past him into the room. She lay on the bed without a word, staring up at the ceiling, hands folded across the shawl. Barry locked the door, put the Ceska where he could reach it, and got on the bed beside her.

  He was surprised at the strength of his own desire. When he kissed her, he was shaking like a boy, and yet there was no response, not even when his hands roamed freely over her body, pushing the nightgown up above her thighs.

  She lay there passively, allowing him to do anything he would with her, still not responding, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide. By then, he was past caring, needing her in a way he hadn’t needed a woman in years.

  Afterward, he rolled to one side, exhausted, and reached for a cigarette. She lay there for a moment longer, then stood up without a word, unlocked the door, and went out.

  Barry lay there, smoking, looking up at the ceiling. It was crazy. It didn’t make sense. It had been a long time since he’d needed anyone like that, a hell of a long time. He closed his eyes and thought of Norah Cassidy.

  SIX

  The tide was drifting in, gurgling in crab holes, covering the mud flats with an expanse of shining water moving among the sea asters. Somewhere a curlew cried, lonely in a somber world.

  Barry and the girl crossed a narrow stone causeway and followed a path through rough marsh grass and head-high reeds. Beyond, they stretched in an unbroken line toward the distant sea on either side of the estuary, swaying, the wind passing through them with an uneasy whispering sound.

  Barry said soberly, “You’d swear there were eyes watching you from every thicket.”

  “Spirits of the dead,” she said. “My father used to tell me the Romans were here two thousand years ago. Ravenglass up the coast was a port even then.” She stood there for a moment, a strange, archaic figure in the head scarf and old raincoat. She shivered visibly. “I don’t like this place. It frightens me. No one comes here, no local people, unless they can’t help it.”

  She intoned the words in that dead voice of hers like the chorus from some Greek play.

  Barry said, “Fine. That’s exactly how I want it.”

  She moved on along the causeway, and he followed. A few moments later they emerged beside a narrow creek. There was a decaying wooden jetty stretching out into the water on rotting pilings. To Barry’s surprise there were two boats moored there, not one.

  The first was real class, with a sharp raking prow and trim lines. It was painted white with a black line along the water mark and was obviously lovingly cared for. The name Kathleen was neatly painted across the bow in gold.

  “Mr. Salter’s own boat,” she said. “He brought the other down from a boatyard outside Ravenglass yesterday.”

  It was a different proposition altogether, a forty-foot motor cruiser painted black, the name Jason-Fowey so faded that Barry had difficulty reading it. He climbed over the rail and went into the wheelhouse, and the girl followed.

  “It doesn’t look much, but it’s a good boat at sea.”

  “You’ve been out in her?”

  She nodded. “Mr. Salter uses her from time to time.”

  “What for?”

  She shrugged. “Fishing, when he’s in the mood. He won’t go out in the Kathleen unless the weather’s perfect.”

  “Spends his spare time polishing the binnacle and so on?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, it figures.” He lit a cigarette and offered her one. She shook her head, and he said, “The men at the farm, have you seen them yet?”

  “I took milk up this morning.”

  “Old friends of Mr. Salter’s?”

  “I wouldn’t know that. I’ve never seen them before.”

  “But you didn’t like them?” They were standing close, shoulders touching, and he was filled with that irrational excitement again. She turned almost unwillingly, eyes down, and he gently stroked her face with the back of one hand. She leaned close. Outside, footsteps boomed on the jetty.

  Barry went on deck as Salter stepped over the rail. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Sinclair,” Salter said. “Will she do?”

  “The other looks a better proposition to me,” Barry said.

  Salter was dismayed and showed it. “My own boat, Mr. Sinclair, a beautiful boat as you can see. You could sail to the Mediterranean in that boat. But the Jason here—there’s more to her than meets the eye, I can assure you. She may not look much, but if you check the engine room, you’ll find a Penta petrol engine. She’ll do twenty-two knots. Depth sounder, automatic steering.”

  “All right,” Barry said. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Salter looked relieved. “Good, and now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take you to the farm and introduce you to Preston and Varley. As I told you, I have a funeral today, and I really am rather pressed for time.”

  Hedley Preston awoke and stared up at the ceiling. For a moment, he couldn’t think where he was, and then he remembered. His mouth tasted bad, his throat dry, and he got up and reached for the whisky bottle on the locker. It was empty, and he tossed it into a corner. He pulled on a pair of jeans and sweater. He was a lean, sardonic-looking man with tangled dark hair and a face that was just beginning to show the first signs of dissipation.

  He lit a cigarette, coughing as th
e smoke caught at the back of his throat, and peered out of the window at the sodden hillside. “Jesus,” he said, “the joys of the countryside.” And he opened the door.

  Jenny Crowther, her mouth open in fear, stumbled into him. Sam Varley was just behind her. Varley was an ox of a man, in soiled sweatshirt and corduroy trousers, and the eyes were wild in the fleshy face. Preston held the girl in the crook of his arm and fended Varley off.

  “Okay, what’s the problem?”

  “I had a two-hundred pack of fags in my room last night. Now they’re gone. That bitch must have taken them.”

  His breath was sour, and not only with the stench of last night’s drinking, for there was a sharp, fresh edge to it that indicated he had already been at the bottle.

  “You lost the whole pack to me at poker last night,” Preston said patiently. “Too bloody drunk to remember, that’s your trouble.”

  “To hell with that,” Varley said. “You’re just trying to protect her.”

  The girl pulled herself free from Preston’s encircling arm and ran. Varley shoved him to one side and went after her. She got the door open, was already on her way out when his hand fastened on her shoulder. And then he seemed to stumble, went down hard on the cobbles of the yard.

  As he tried to get up, his feet were kicked from under him expertly. Flat on his back, a foot across his throat, he struggled, glaring up into Frank Barry’s implacable face. Barry increased the pressure until Varley started to choke. Then the pressure was relieved. Barry took the Ceska from his pocket and touched the muzzle to Varley’s forehead.

  The girl cried out, a hand to her mouth, and Henry Salter said desperately, “For God’s sake, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Barry said softly, “Touch her again, I’ll put you on sticks.”

  And Varley knew fear then, the kind of fear that almost turned his bowels to water, as well as rage. Barry removed his foot and stepped back. As the big man got up, Preston, lounging in the doorway, laughed.

  “A touching scene.” He came forward as Barry picked up his briefcase. “I’m Hedley Preston, Mr. Sinclair. This throwback to a more primitive age is Sam Varley. You must forgive him, but he’s only just learned how to walk erect.”

  “I’ll close that mouth of yours for good one of these days,” Varley said and went into the house.

  Preston stood to one side with a slight, mocking grin, and Barry walked past, followed by the girl and Salter. When they went into the sitting room, Varley was in a chair by the fire, clutching a bottle.

  Barry put the briefcase on the table and said to the girl, “You cut along to the kitchen and make us a nice cup of tea or something.” She hesitated, and he nodded reassuringly. “Go on, it’ll be all right.”

  She went out. Salter closed the door and leaned against it. Barry nodded to Varley and said to Preston, “He starts early.”

  “Just his little weakness. Like they say in show business, Mr. Sinclair, he’ll be all right on the night.”

  “Is that a fact?” Barry put the Ceska on the table beside the briefcase and unbuttoned his coat.

  “So what’s the job?” Preston asked.

  “Simple enough. We stop a truck on a country road twenty miles from here on Wednesday morning, off-load what it contains, and bring it back here.”

  “And what does it contain?” Preston asked.

  “That’s none of your business.” Barry opened the case. “This is.” He tossed several packets of twenty-pound notes across. “Five thousand quid each there. You get the other half on completion.”

  Varley got up and moved to the table, reaching. Preston slapped his hand away. “And that’s all you’re telling us?”

  “It’s a simple job,” Barry said. “Very simple. You get told what to do on Wednesday morning. Three hours work at the most and you’ll be on your way. Of course, if you’re not interested…”

  Preston said, “Oh, but we are.” He quickly pushed the packets together into a neat pile. “Anything you say, Mr. Sinclair. Like the guy out of the brass lamp said, to hear is to obey.”

  “See that you do.” Barry snapped the briefcase shut and turned to Salter, “I’ll go back with you now. I want that Land Rover of yours. Somewhere I have to go this afternoon.”

  Preston said, “You’ll be back?”

  “Oh, yes,” Barry told him. “You can count on it.”

  He and Salter went out into the passageway as Jenny appeared from the kitchen with a tray. “You’re going?” she said.

  “I’ll be back this evening.” Barry smiled. “Don’t worry. Just get on with the cleaning up. The apeman won’t touch you again. The clever bugger will see to that.”

  He winked in a conspiratorial fashion, went out, got into Salter’s limousine, and they drove away.

  Watching through the sitting room window, Varley said viciously, “When I’ve finished with that little bastard—”

  “Don’t be stupid, Samuel,” Preston said. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, he could take you apart any time he wanted.” He tapped the packets of money in front of him. “Ten grand here, Samuel, another ten to come, which means whatever is in that truck he mentioned must be very interesting indeed.”

  Varley smiled slowly. “Here, are you meaning what I think you are?”

  “I used to study Latin at school, Samuel. Festine lente. Hasten slowly. That way you get it all in the end.”

  “Including him?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Varley laughed delightedly and reached for the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Barry and Salter stood beside the Land Rover in the barn. Salter said, “I didn’t try to dress them up. You must admit that. I was told hard men were required, men who would do anything, and they certainly fit the bill.”

  “What’s Preston’s background?”

  “Middle-class respectable. His father was an accountant in Bradford, and Preston went to grammar school there, so he’s decently educated. I understand he was training to be an accountant himself and went to prison for some fraud or other. Since then, he’s never looked back. Was released from prison six months ago after serving three years of a five-year sentence for armed robbery of a supermarket. Varley, of course, is just an animal.”

  “A drunken animal,” Barry corrected. “Still, never mind. At least I know what I’m dealing with. I’ll see you later.”

  He drove the Land Rover out of the barn and across the yard. Salter turned to the hearse, which had a coffin inside now. He took out a handkerchief and very carefully inspected the whole vehicle, occasionally pausing to give the chrome a quick polish.

  The Air France jet touched down exactly on time at Marignane Airport, fifteen miles outside Marseilles. As it was only a quarter full, the passengers passed through customs and, where necessary, immigration, with no delay. Within forty-five minutes of landing, Devlin and Anne-Marie were driving toward the coast road in a rented Peugeot. Devlin said, “We’ll find a hotel in St. Denis for tonight. That’s where the prison supply boat leaves from.” She nodded, not saying anything, concentrating on her driving and Devlin added, “You realize you can’t come with me tomorrow? I mean, I’ll have to see how the land lies.”

  “I know that, Liam.” She glanced sideways and smiled. “Just as I know that he may still not wish to see me. I learned a long time ago to expect nothing from Martin.”

  “You really mean that?”

  “Once, in Vietnam, when it looked as if we both would very probably die, we spoke of a rendezvous in Paris. A sidewalk cafe in the rain, the smell of damp chestnut trees.”

  “Absolutely essential,” Devlin said.

  She smiled without looking at him. “Dear Liam, why could it not have been you I loved? I was to wear a Paris gown, very chic.”

  “Just like the plugs on television. Dreams for the masses.”

  “Only ours came true, Liam. He took a rest from Ulster, met me in Paris. We found our sidewalk cafe, the chestnut trees behaved perfectly. Two weeks and then he went back
.” She shrugged. “You see, he had a mistress waiting for him, darker than me and infinitely more demanding.”

  They drove on in silence, for there was really nothing left to say.

  * * *

  The bar at the village pub at Brisingham was a large, comfortable room with a low-beamed ceiling, several high-backed benches, and a couple of wooden tables. There was a fire on the open hearth.

  Barry was the only customer, and he stood at the end of the bar devouring the last of the beef sandwiches the landlady, a large matronly blonde, had provided for him.

  “Great,” Barry said, “couldn’t be better.” He reached for his beer. “Where’s all the customers then?”

  “Don’t get many tourists through in the winter. Mainly evening trade. Locals.”

  “But I thought there was an RAF airfield here. This is Brisingham, isn’t it?”

  “Closed down years ago. They have a dozen men up there at the most. Oh, planes still land, but not very often.” She sighed. “I remember a time twelve years or so ago when you couldn’t get near the bar on a night what with the boys in RAF blue.”

  “That’s life,” Barry said. “Everything changes. Thanks for the sandwiches.”

  Ten minutes later, he slowed the Land Rover as he came to the perimeter fence of the airfield. He coasted along past the main gate, which was padlocked, and then picked up speed and drove on. Five miles further on, a signpost indicated Wastwater to the right, a narrow country road climbing up into the mountains. He found what he was looking for without too much trouble. A small wood, a plateau of grass beside the road. When he stopped the engine, there wasn’t a sound except for a curlew calling. He could have been the only man left alive on the face of the earth.

  He got out of the Land Rover and stood there looking around him, smiling. “Frank, me old son,” he said softly. “I think this will do very nicely indeed.”