“If we do not get Kevin into shelter, he will be dead by morning. Also, as soon as it is light, they will follow our tracks down here and find us.”
“Then I’d better fetch the car.”
Anna, who had been looking back the way they had come, said, “No. It is too dangerous. If they have found Ramon, they may be guarding the road by now. I shall have to fetch help. I have friends not far from here. That farm we passed, had it a telephone?”
Peter thought about it. He had seen the farm by daylight. He said, “Yes. There was a line of wires going to it.”
“Then wait here. I will not be too long.”
She crossed the road and disappeared into the driving rain. Not too long? That might be anything from half an hour to three hours. Kevin was crouched with his knees up to his chin, as if he was trying to hold his damaged body together. From time to time he shook with some violent spasm of pain or shock. Apart from that, he was quite still. Peter wondered if there was anything he could do to make either of them more comfortable. There was already some water in the ditch, but, being under the overhang of the bank, they could avoid the worst of it, and it gave them some shelter from the driving rain. If Anna was not too long, Kevin might hold out. Who were her friends? And how could she be so certain that they were not far away? Then he remembered the telephone call she had been making from Captain Andy’s house. That was probably the answer.
Hours crawled by. Peter looked at his watch. He had noted the time when Anna left them. Two o’clock. It was now twenty-five minutes past two.
Twenty-five minutes? His watch must be wrong.
Some time after this Peter became aware that a cold light was shining into the ditch. He scrambled to his feet. It was the moon. Captain Andy had been right. The storm had blown itself out. The rain had stopped, and the black clouds were scudding in full retreat across the sky. A sound made him look down. Kevin had raised his head off his chest.
“It’s all right,” said Peter. “Just hang on. Anna will be back soon.”
“Anna,” said Kevin.
“That’s right. She’s gone for help. She’ll be back soon.” Peter sat down again and put one arm round Kevin, who was shaking.
“Anna,” said Kevin again, more urgently. He was fumbling in the pocket of his windcheater. After agonising seconds he drew something out and pressed it into Peter’s hand. It was too dark for Peter to make out what it was he was holding. It felt square and metallic. He stowed it away in his own pocket. Since Kevin seemed to be anxious about it, Peter said, “It’s all right, Kevin. I’ll give it to Anna as soon as she gets back.”
The moon, which had been playing hide-and-seek behind the clouds, shone for a moment on Kevin’s upturned face, and Peter saw the life going out of him. He saw the eyes glazing and the mouth coming open as the muscles slackened. Then Kevin gave a long and very gentle sigh, and his body, in Peter’s arms, changed from something living to something without life in it.
Peter sat for long minutes unmoving. He had never seen death so close before. He had no idea what to do. He disengaged himself gently and stood up. As he did so, he noticed something so unexpected, and so grotesque, that it made his heart jump.
It looked as if someone, playing an obscene joke, had put a cigarette into Kevin’s dead mouth.
It was a tiny roll of paper, in size and shape not unlike a cigarette. Kevin must have been holding it, hidden, inside his mouth. It looked so indecent that Peter got out his wallet and stowed the paper away in it. Then he got up, climbed out onto the road, and started to think again.
Kevin was dead. There was nothing more he could do. If Anna had friends, they could look after her. For himself, he wanted no further hand in the business. It was as he started to move that the men came through the gap in the hedge on the other side of the road. Two together, and then three more, and then Anna. They stood looking at him.
Peter said, “Kevin’s dead.”
Anna said nothing. She came forward and scrambled down into the ditch. One of the men went with her. He had a flashlight. Peter looked at the men standing on the road. Two were quite young. Two were a little older. They were waiting, patient and unexcited, as if standing about at three o’clock in the morning beside a dead man in a ditch was part of an understood routine.
The man with the flashlight climbed out. From the way he spoke, Peter knew that he was the leader. Then the others climbed down, one at a time, into the ditch. Anna spoke a few words to each of them. It seemed to Peter like some form of ritual. When it was over, Anna came back onto the road. She said, her voice carefully under control, “Did he say anything to you? Before he died?”
“Yes,” said Peter. He felt in his top pocket and got out the thing that Kevin had handed to him. It was a plain gunmetal cigarette case. “He wanted you to have this.”
Anna turned the case over in her fingers. “Did he say why?”
“Just that he wanted you to have it. Perhaps there is something in it.”
Anna opened the case. The other men watched her impassively. It was empty.
The leader said something. The men started to move across the ditch and up the hill. Peter said, “What are you going to do?”
Anna said, “We are going to teach these people a lesson they will not forget. I think it would be better if you stayed here. We shall not take long.”
Then she was gone, leaving Peter standing beside the road. The incident had not lasted five minutes.
It was all very well, said Peter’s monitor, coming sharply to life again, it was all very fine and large telling him that it would be better if he stayed where he was. Better for whom? Better than what? Better than following that savage commando up the hill, no doubt. But when they had finished their bloody business? He had seen their faces clearly in the moonlight. Might it not occur to them that he alone was in a position to identify them? No doubt Anna would tell them that he had helped her. But they were professional killers, men who would hardly allow sentiment to overrule considerations of their own safety. Also, they were the men who had killed Mr. Westall. Of that he felt an illogical but absolute conviction. The fact that they had wiped him out in error made the killing seem more, or less, horrible. Ignorant armies clashing by night. No, his mind was made up. He was going while the going was good. For the second time he started to move. And for the second time he stopped.
Something was coming along the road. With a curse he slithered back into the ditch.
It was a five-ton Army truck, travelling slowly and without lights. It came to a halt ten yards short of where he was crouching. The door beside the driver’s seat opened and a man jumped out. He was dressed in regulation combat dress, camouflage jacket, battle-dress trousers, and ankle boots, and was carrying what looked like a machine pistol slung over one shoulder.
He went around to the back of the truck and said, “All out, Sergeant.”
There were sixteen men in the truck. Peter counted them as they dropped, one by one, onto the road. They made so little noise that he guessed their boots were studded or soled with rubber.
“All right,” said the man who had first spoken. Peter could see him clearly in the moonlight and guessed him to be an officer. “Spread out as you go, but don’t lose touch with the men on either side of you. Five yards should be about tight. Straight up the hill, and stop when you reach the crest. When the covering party’s in position, they’ll give us a green over white. You stay with the truck, Sergeant. Run it down to the next turning and face it up the track to the camp. If anyone tries to break down that way, turn your lights on, give them one warning, and then shoot. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
The Sergeant climbed in beside the driver, and the truck rolled off down the road.
“Right, then. Off we go, and for God’s sake don’t start shooting each other.”
This produced a quiet laugh. The next moment the road was empty. The nearest man crossed the ditch within two paces of where Peter crouched. Peter caught a glimpse
of his face as he went by, very young and very solemn. Peter wondered whether this was the first time he had gone into action against an enemy who might shoot back.
“Third time must be lucky,” said Peter. He tiptoed across the road and through the gap in the hedge. This time there was no opposition. He made his way back along the hedge, crouching low when he reached the turning up to the camp. He could see the lorry, but it was positioned with its back to him. No danger there. Five minutes more brought him to where his car was parked. Peter opened the gate, eased himself into the driving seat, and was careful to make no noise when he shut the door.
“Now for it,” he said. “I know you’re cold, old girl, I know you’re wet, but please, please start first time.”
The faithful Savoia did not fail him. One touch on the starter and the engine sprang to life. Roll down the short slope, out through the gate, swing right, and away. He thought he heard a shout behind him, but he ignored it. As soon as he was around the first corner, he switched on all the lights and put on speed.
It was only when he turned into the main road between Cryde and Cryde Bay that he realised how tired he was. His eyes were playing tricks. The section of road immediately beyond his headlights started to tilt. The illusion was so convincing that he changed gear to tackle a hill which disappeared when he came to it.
Better not drive too fast. Only two miles to go. Then he could go to bed and go to sleep.
This started a second train of thought. Had he ever waked up? Might the events of the last fantastic hours be no more than a dream, orchestrated by the storm? The sort of dream which aped realism by mixing the frightening with the fantastic: Mr. Quarles and his sister at Minehead, and Anna talking on the telephone; Captain Andy apprehensive that he might be elected a town councillor, and the body of the young man Ramon on the ground with his neck broken. Had Peter really stumbled through the rain and sat beside Kevin and watched him die? Were those solemn Israeli killers merely the creatures of his overblown imagination? These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air. The cloudcapped towers, the gorgeous palaces. Watch it, for God’s sake, keep your stupid eyes open.
And the soldiers? What was it the Colonel had said? A game of chess. They make a move, we make a move. He had certainly moved in force. How had he managed to time his move so well? It was a small mystery among greater mysteries.
Here was Cryde Bay at last. Park the car. Climb out. Shut the door. Fumbling for the keys to lock the car, he dropped them. It was an effort to pick them up. The moon was growing pale, defeated by the growing light of the morning. Peter remembered that they had left the back door unlocked when they went out. It was still unlocked. He crept upstairs through the silent house, managed to get most of his clothes off, and fell into bed and into a bottomless pit of sleep.
18
It was afternoon when Peter opened his eyes. Captain Andy was standing beside the bed.
He said, “It’s gone half past two. I thought I’d better give you a nudge. I’ve brought you a cup of tea.”
“Thanks awfully,” said Peter. He propped himself on one elbow, conscious that he was still wearing his shirt and that there was, among other marks, a long, dark stain down the front of it.
“I didn’t hear you come in last night.”
“I’m afraid I was very late. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“I’m a sound sleeper,” said the Captain. “What I was wondering about was what’s happened to those two friends of yours. They seem to have decamped.”
The events of the previous night, blurred by sleep, came back to Peter with such brutal force that he jerked upright in bed, spilling some of the tea out of the cup.
“Better let me take charge of that,” said the Captain.
“Look,” said Peter, as soon as he felt able to speak. “I brought them here. I didn’t know a lot about them. In fact, I only met them a day or two ago. I feel entirely responsible. Let me know what bill they’ve run up and I’ll pay it.”
“Do I gather from that that we shan’t be seeing them again?”
Peter nearly choked, and said, “I don’t think we will.”
Now that he was sitting up, the stain on his shirt was glaringly obvious.
“It’s blood, isn’t it?” said the Captain. “Yours or someone else’s?”
“Not mine,” said Peter. “Kevin’s. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“Is he, now?” said the Captain calmly. “Then I think you’d better tell me about it.” He sat down on the end of the bed. “I’m generally reckoned to be discreet.”
“All right,” said Peter. “Some of it isn’t my story. I shall have to skip those bits. But I can tell you the main part of it. You may have read in the papers about Dr. Wolfe going over Rackthorn Point in his car.”
“Certainly I read about it, and talked about it. Everyone seemed to think there was some sort of story behind it, but they didn’t quite know what.”
“It’s the story behind it that I’m going to try to give you,” said Peter.
The Captain was a good listener. At the end he said, “So I’ve been entertaining two killers.”
“I don’t think they were professional killers. I remember reading about the way the Israeli assassination squads work. They’re divided into sections. There’s an advance party, who make a reconnaissance and keep an eye on things. They usually pose as husband and wife or brother and sister or something like that. Then there’s a communication party. They keep contact with the reconnaissance party and call up the actual killers at the right moment.”
“Businesslike people, the Israelis. So Kevin and Anna were the advance party. A pity about Kevin. Do you think Anna is dead, too?”
“I don’t know,” said Peter miserably. “But I’m sure I shall never see her again.”
The Captain said nothing immediately. There was a strength in him which Peter had sensed before. He fancied it must come from the roving life the Captain had led, and Peter was conscious of the reluctant envy which the young sometimes feel for older and more integrated people. When the Captain spoke, his mind had reverted to a different point. He said, “So you were actually in the house on the night poor old Westall was killed.”
“I was indeed. And I got out seconds ahead of the police.”
“I suppose you realise that you must have been there within minutes of the killing. According to the papers, it was an elderly couple in the next house down the Chine who heard the shots. They have a telephone beside their bed and rang through to the police at once. They reckon they got there in less than five minutes.”
“Then I wonder I didn’t hear the shots, too.”
The Captain looked at him and said, “Yes. That is a bit odd. Maybe it’s because you were up top and the sound was masked by the Chine. I think I better get you some breakfast. It’s not the conventional hour for it, but you’ll feel more able to face the world with something inside you.”
When Peter had washed away most of the evidence of the night before, had put on a new shirt and finished dressing, he did feel ready to tackle a belated breakfast. While he ate it, he gave further thought to his own future.
Was there anything to prevent him from packing up and going back to London? It would be leaving a job half done, but it was now a job which could only be finished by professionals.
Thinking about his job reminded him that he had still neither finished nor posted his report. It was four o’clock. With any luck he would find Arthur Troyte at his desk.
Mr. Troyte seemed only mildly surprised to hear from his errant employee. He said, “I didn’t expect miracles, Peter. You’ve only been at it a few days. Give it to the end of the week, and if you haven’t got any hard information by then, come back to base.”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve got quite a lot of information.”
“Which way is it looking?”
“I don’t think Dr. Wolfe is dead.”
This produced a short silence. Then Mr. Tro
yte, sounding like someone who has been presented with a large and unexpected sum of money, said, “Well—”
“Two days ago I was sure he was still alive. In fact, I thought I knew where he was hanging out. I was wrong about that, but it doesn’t mean I was wrong altogether.”
“If there’s the slightest chance that you’re right,” said Mr. Troyte earnestly, “you can stay down there just as long as you like.” He paused to think about it. “If it was a put-up job, it’ll mean criminal proceedings against Wolfe.”
“I realise that.”
“Do you think his sister was in it with him?”
“I should think it most unlikely.”
“Can I tell the underwriters about this?”
“For goodness’ sake,” said Peter, “don’t say anything to anyone until you hear from me again. I’ll ring you, or write, next Monday at the latest. Then we can make up our minds.” He hung up.
Sam Phelps had been listening in on an extension line. He said, “I’m not sure we were right to send that young man down. It should have been someone older. Someone with a bit more ballast. He’s probably dramatising the whole thing. You know what young people are like.”
“Could be,” said Arthur Troyte. “But I don’t think so. He’s got his head screwed on all right, that boy. He won’t get himself or us into any trouble. You’ll see.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Sam Phelps. “Because I can smell trouble coming.”
It was after six o’clock when Captain Andy, who had gone out to do the shopping, came back with a basket of provisions and a serious look on his face.
He said, “I’ve been talking to an old friend of mine. Chap called Rayner. He runs the Esplanade. That big hotel on the front. I expect you saw it?”
Peter nodded, He knew from the Captain’s manner that something else unpleasant was in the offing.
“The local bobby called on him this morning and asked to look through his register. He wanted to know who the current lot of guests were. He seemed particularly interested in the ones who had arrived in the last few days. Most of Rayner’s people are regulars – old ladies, and mums and dads with young families. He wasn’t interested in them. What he was looking for was a young man travelling solo.”
The Empty House Page 17