The Empty House

by Michael Gilbert

  “Who was offering him sanctuary?”

  “If we knew who they were, we’d know where to go and look for him. All we know about the country concerned is that it must have been the terminal point of those long, long trips which he used to make, starting on the other side of the Channel and ending God knows where.”

  Peter thought about it. Some pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. No more, yet, than a small part of the framework. The straight-edged blue bits which made up the sky.

  He said, “You talked about him being under your protection. If he was as dangerous as all that, surely he could have been killed at any time during the last year or so.”

  “When?”

  “When? Whenever he stepped outside the Research Establishment boundary fence.”

  “I should have been very much upset if anyone had succeeded in doing it. We had taken elaborate precautions to see that it didn’t happen. When he went into Bridgetown for a drink, one of the guards went in his car with him and another car followed at a discreet distance. Dave Brewer was in our confidence. He’d have alerted us if there had been any suspicious characters hanging round the hotel. No, I don’t think it would have been easy.”

  “What about his fishing expeditions?”

  “More difficult still. They took place in daylight and open country. We used a half-platoon on each occasion. Good practice for the men in fieldcraft. We had him ringed round so tight that no stranger could have got within half a mile of him without being intercepted. It’s lucky for Wolfe he was an uncommonly truthful fisherman. We had a record of every trout he caught and its approximate size and weight.”

  “All right,” said Peter. “But what about the times when he drove away in his car?”

  “We couldn’t do much about that, agreed. Nor could the opposition. It was the speed and unexpectedness of it which made it safe. He kept a bag packed in his car, drove straight out of the camp, and made for one of the half-dozen places you can cross the Channel from. A friend of his helped him.”

  “Roland Highsmith?”

  “We think so. He seems to have been the one person who was fully in Wolfe’s confidence. He’d buy the tickets in advance, probably in another name, and deposit them at a post restante near the selected port. All Wolfe had to do was to drive straight there and pick them up. If he timed it properly, he could be out of the country within a few hours of leaving the camp.”

  “He might be out of the country now.”

  “Not this time. No. In the ordinary way, even if we did spot him leaving the country, we couldn’t stop him. This time it was different. A faked suicide. Legitimate inquiries. We had the machinery ready. It only needed the signal to be given. No, he’s still here, I’m sure of that. He wouldn’t take a chance on it. He’s lying up somewhere, waiting for the heat to come off.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s one man who could tell us that: Roland Highsmith. You say you saw him when you noted the house that first night; but he’s very likely out of the country himself by now. If he’s got any sense, he’s having a quiet holiday with his family in the Black Forest. That’s why you became such a prime object of interest. When you were seen leaving Highsmith’s office, it was assumed that you’d found out from him the one fact everyone wanted to know: where Wolfe was hiding out.”

  “I thought I had,” said Peter sadly.

  “If you had the information, the Petros crowd assumed that Anna would have got it from you and passed it on to Kevin. That’s what they tortured him to find out. Only the poor chap didn’t know anything, so he’s nothing to tell them.”

  As the Colonel said this, a further small piece of the puzzle fell into place; a small but important piece.

  Peter said, “It did surprise me that an experienced operator like Kevin should have let the opposition spot him so easily.”

  “To be quite frank with you, they didn’t. It was our outer ring of scouts who saw him.”

  As the full import of what the Colonel had said sunk in, Peter stared at him in total disbelief.

  Then he said, “Are you telling me that you – that your people – gave him away?”

  “That’s right.”

  “For God’s sake!”

  “Why not? We wanted things to come to a head that night. So it seemed a sound move.”

  “A sound move.” Peter nearly choked on the words. “You handed him over, deliberately, knowing that he’s be tortured and killed.”

  “Tortured, yes. That’s the sort of risk you have to run in this business. We didn’t imagine they’d kill him.”

  “But they did.”

  “No,” said the Colonel. “I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong. It wasn’t them. It was you and Anna who killed him.”

  “What—what on earth—” Peter found that he was beginning to splutter, and controlled himself by a strong effort of will. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Kevin died of shock and exposure. If he’d been allowed to stay put where he was, the doctors could have pulled him through all right. He’d have been a bit bent, but he certainly wouldn’t have died.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You can see the medical report, if you like. I’ve got it here.”

  “Even if that’s true, you had no right – it was a vile thing to do.”

  “Lots of vile things get done in war,” said the Colonel. “The thing was a planned sequence. We had one mistake. We thought that when Kevin didn’t come back, Anna would whistle up her supports and move in straight away. We weren’t to know she was going to try a solo rescue first. As a matter of fact, if it hadn’t been for the storm, I don’t think even she would have dared try it, though she’s a very daring girl.”

  Peter had been conscious from some minutes of a growing fury. It was bubbling up inside him, a hot and choking fire, stoked by each of the Colonel’s carefully modulated remarks. Who was this—this white-moustached, pop-eyed little bastard who played with lives as though they were pieces on a board! Peter’s monitor, who never slept for long, warned him of the stupidity of what he was doing. He realised that every word the Colonel uttered, every inflexion in his voice, was programmed to a definite end. He knew that if he lost his self- control he might involve himself in a very dangerous situation. Yet no considerations of prudence could have stopped him at that point. He thought out exactly what he was going to say, and said it.

  “Just now, you accused me of killing Kevin”Not deliberately, I appreciate that,” said the Colonel kindly.

  “Let me return the compliment. Not only did you kill a perfectly harmless person who was quite unconnected with your obscene games, but you hadn’t even got the guts to kill him yourself.”

  “I imagine you mean Mr. Westall. So far as I know, he was killed by the Israeli hit team, on mistaken information supplied by you and passed on to them by your young lady. I’m afraid any responsibility there must be yours, too.”

  “That’s untrue. And you know it’s untrue. Agreed that I told Anna about the house in the Chine while we were out together that afternoon. But she was never out of my sight for a single moment between the time I told her and the time I myself left for the Chine. So how is she supposed to have passed the information on? Certainly not by telephone. Perhaps by telepathy?”

  The Colonel looked up once, and then dropped his eyes. It was a tiny movement. If Peter had been calmer, he would have noted the reaction and would have been doubly cautious. He had got inside the Colonel’s guard. His point had scratched his opponent’s skin.

  “Well,” said the Colonel at last, “it’s a problem you’ll have to solve for me. I’m afraid it’s too difficult for my simple intelligence.”

  “There’s no difficulty about it. I was the only person who even suspected that Dr. Wolfe might be living in that particular house. I’d worked it out wrong, I agree. But I was the only person in possession of the answer.”

  “Quite so. And the only person you’d passed it on to was Anna.”


  “Wrong again. Two days before that I told an old schoolmaster. A Mr. Garland. I wanted him to come and help me identify Dr. Wolfe and talk to him. Mr. Garland worked for one of your organisations during the war and maybe kept in touch afterward. He must have felt in duty bound to pass the information on to his old employers. That’s how you knew, or thought you knew, that Dr. Wolfe was at that house in the Chine. And that’s the address you sent the Israeli killers to.”

  Peter hardly knew, by now, what reaction he expected. The Colonel, as usual, managed to surprise him. He hoisted himself to his feet, glanced at the clock, and said, “Do you know, it’s after one o’clock. Another drink before you go?”

  Peter shook his head angrily.

  “You’re quite sure? Well, I shall have to ask you to excuse me. I’m expecting a call from Western Command, and they should be coming through at any moment now.”

  Peter found himself on his feet. His legs were not entirely steady.

  “I’ve enjoyed our talk. If there’s any other help I can give you, please consider me entirely at your disposal. Can you manage the boat? Splendid. Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to tie it up securely so that Rupert can use it when he comes back. Good night. Good night.”

  The door shut behind him, and Peter started off down the path, his mind in a state of total confusion. He was annoyed with himself, furious with the Colonel, puzzled and a bit frightened without being sure what he was frightened of. He was still trying to sort it out when he jumped into the boat, unhitched the mooring rope, and pushed out from the small landing stage.

  A moment later he realised two things in quick succession.

  The first was that the tide, which must have been one side or other of full when he had crossed three hours earlier, was now running out strongly. The second was that he had nothing to paddle the boat with. The footboard which he had planned to use was jammed.

  He was too experienced to be unduly alarmed. There was a locker at the stern of the boat. He opened the lid and found that it contained nothing but a tin bailer with a wooden handle. It would make a paddle of sorts, but not a very effective one.

  The current turned the boat broadside on, and Peter hastily shifted his weight across to preserve some sort of trim. The Culme, full from the rain of the previous night, had joined hands with the ebb tide and was racing for the open sea. It was only when he saw the tiny strip of sand at the foot of the trailer site flash past that Peter realised how fast it was running. It was too late to think of abandoning the boat and making for the bank. Even if he had been able to beat the current, he would have found himself among the crags and treacherous eddies at the foot of Rackthorn Point.

  “What Rackthorn takes, Rackthorn keeps,” he said to himself. Much better let the tide take him out to sea. It would be light in three or four hours, and the Bristol Channel was a highway for boats of all sorts. He’d be picked up before long. It was a stupid mischance, but nothing worse than that.

  He put the bailer back in the locker and turned his attention to the jammed footboard. With that to help him, he could keep the boat bows forward and minimise the risk of being swamped. As he bent down, he saw, twenty yards ahead of him, the line of foam which marked the bar at the mouth of the river.

  There was no time to do anything about it. The boat hit the white water sideways on, checked for a heart-stopping moment, and then turned right over.

  20

  “When in doubt,” his father had told them, “stick to the boat. People sink. Boats don’t.” As he surfaced, he could see the boat, upside down, bobbing along ahead of him. He spat out a mouthful of salt water and set out after it. They were both going with the current, and he caught up with it easily enough and heaved himself over it, grabbing at the upturned keel. When he had done that, he started to think.

  At ten o’clock the tide must have been well past its high point, still just strong enough to check the current of the river, but no longer making against it. This would account for the ease with which Rupert had been able to take the boat across. That meant the tide would be due to turn soon after three. The tides in the Bristol Channel were strong and capricious. Given their head, they would probably carry him back close to the point from which he had started. The question was whether he could hang on for another three hours. He knew the bleak answer to that before he put the question. Cold, exhaustion, and his waterlogged clothes would have put him under long before.

  There was a way out, if he was strong enough and clever enough to take it. His height would be a help. He remembered Anna saying, “You’re an eel. A great, long, slippery eel.” Eels didn’t drown. Not if they remembered what they had been taught by their fathers.

  The first step was to locate the mooring rope. He edged his way toward the bows, felt underwater, and found it. It was a fair length of rope. He passed it under the boat, from the near side to the far side, got both hands to the loose end, and exerted all the pressure he could while treading water.

  For a moment the dead weight of the waterlogged boat resisted him. Then a wave, arriving from the far side at a fortunate moment, lent its help, and the boat turned over.

  Peter felt his way back to the stern. It was easier now that he had the edge of the gunwale to hang on to. The locker was in the back seat of the dinghy. He had had no time to fasten the lid and it was more than possible that the bailer—no, thank God, it was still there. As his fingers touched it, he spat out another mouthful of salt water and said, “Don’t hurry. Take it easy, you’ve done all this before.”

  He started, very gently, to bail. It was then that he realised the difference between the flat and friendly Thames and the dimpled sea. It was not rough. But there was a distinct lop on the surface, sufficient to put back any water he bailed out.

  There must be an answer. Try to think. Ignore the cold, ignore the weight in your clothes and the ache in your wrist, and use your brains. All he had to do was get the thing started. He would have to do it by first tipping the boat slightly, and after that by speed.

  The tipping was easy. He had only to press down on his side of the boat until it was level with the surface of the water and the other side rose a few inches. Then he hurled himself into the job of trying to scoop out as much water as possible before the next wave came along and cancelled his efforts.

  Twice he nearly lost the bailer. Then he saw the wave coming, released his side of the boat, and offered up a short prayer. The water lipped the few precious inches of freeboard which he had won. But it did not come over.

  Carry on bailing. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty times. Hold the boat steady when a wave comes. This time there was a little more to spare.

  As the level of water in the boat sank, he had to lean over, farther and farther, to scoop it out. Now a fresh decision had to be made. It was a matter of weighing up the failing strength in his arms and wrists with the desirability of getting as much water as possible out of the boat before he took the final step.

  The boat was half empty and had recovered a lot of its buoyancy. Better to try it while he had a small reserve of energy left. He edged his way along to the flat stern of the boat. The bailer went back into the locker, and the locker was fastened. Then he grasped the stern in both hands, took a deep breath, and heaved himself forward.

  The effort took his body over the thwart, but his centre of gravity was still outside the boat, and he could feel the water coming in all around him. Only the knowledge that if he slipped back now he was finished gave him the strength for a final effort. Somehow he got his left knee over the edge of the stern, and that gave him the purchase for a last convulsive heave. Then he was lying in the boat, his face underwater and his heart going like a trip hammer.

  But he was safe, and he knew it.

  He turned over on his side and lay breathing deeply as his heart slowed down. Then he wriggled around, got hold of the bailer, and finished bailing out the boat. He stopped once to be sick. The muscles of his stomach were still knotted with the effort he had made, and vomit
ing was painful. After he had cleared the boat, he stripped off all of his clothes, wrung the water out of them, and sat naked, trying to make his mind up whether it was worth putting them on again. The night wind quickly told him that it was.

  His watch showed the time as nearly half past two. It would be light in an hour or so, and if the tide had not carried him close enough to the shore for him to swim to land, he could expect help from other boats. He started to shiver in short, uncontrollable spasms.

  This was the bleak hour before dawn, the hour which he had experienced before, when the last drops of confidence and hope had drained away and nothing was left but apprehension and emptiness and despair. It was the lowest circle in the Inferno, below the hot hells of anger and pain and lust, far down into the unsounded gray depths. It was the cavern of treachery and defeat.

  The trance he fell into could hardly be called sleep. It was a temporary release, into the blackness of the nether pit. When he opened his eyes there was light in the sky. The morning breeze, blowing off the sea, had helped the tide, and he was quite close inshore, near to the opening of a small river. It was not the Culme. He thought for a moment that it might be the Lynn, but that would have been much bigger and there would have been buildings in sight. It might, he guessed, be the Widd, a small stream which ran out to sea on the other side of Culme Point.

  Using the bailer as a paddle, Peter managed to turn the bows of the boat into the river. The tide was making strongly now, and he was carried upstream at a fair speed. When he had rounded the first bend and was out of sight of the sea, he edged the boat to the bank and managed to beach it on a patch of stones and gravel under overhanging trees.

  He was so stiff and so clammed with cold that the simple action of stepping ashore was beyond him. He levered his long legs over the side, slid forward onto his knees, put one hand onto the boat, and started to organise the effort which would get him back onto his feet.

  As he did so, his eye fell on the footboard which had so obstinately resisted all his efforts during the night to remove it and use it as a paddle.