Midnight Never Comes pc-4

by Jack Higgins

  He tilted her chin and said wryly: 'You're very lovely, Asta Svensson. So lovely that I think I'd better get back to your foot without further delay.'

  Her smile seemed to deepen, to become luminous and she no longer looked shy, but completely sure of herself. She leaned back in the old chair and raised her foot again and Chavasse looked at it, aware of her eyes on him.

  There was a faint swelling above the ankle bone beneath a jagged scar. He probed it gently and nodded. 'I don't think it's much. How did you get the scar?'

  'Skiing. There was a time when I thought I might make the Olympics.'

  'Too bad.' He stood up and took a spare handkerchief from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. 'I don't think it's much, but a cold-water bandage won't do any harm. I'll take the lamp if I may.'

  He left her there in the firelight, went into the kitchen and soaked the handkerchief under the cold tap. When he returned, she was lying back in the chair, eyes closed. The moment he touched her foot, she opened them again.

  'Tired?' Chavasse said as he bandaged the foot expertly.

  She nodded. 'As the ticket collector said, it was a fair step.'

  She mimicked him superbly and Chavasse chuckled. 'It was that and more. Have you had anything to eat?' She shook her head and he produced the remaining half pound of chocolate from his pocket and dropped it into her lap. 'Greater love hath no man. Start on that and I'll see what there is in the kitchen.'

  He was back within a couple of minutes. 'Nothing doing, I'm afraid. All the cupboards are locked and the calor gas cylinders are empty, so we couldn't cook anything even if we wanted to.'

  'Never mind, the chocolate is fine.' Already half was gone and she held the bar out, a guilty look on her face. 'Have some.'

  'That's all right,' he said. 'I had a whole bar to myself back there on the mountain. I'll make do with a cigarette.'

  'I must say you seem extraordinarily self-sufficient,' she said. 'What do you do for a living?'

  'I'm Lecturer in French Literature at the University of Essex-or at least I will be when the new term starts in October. Something of a return to the fold really.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'Oh, I was a university lecturer way back when I first started out, but it all seemed too restricting, so I joined the overseas Civil Service.'

  'What went wrong?'

  'Nothing really, except that the Empire diminished year by year and they kept moving me on. Kenya, Cyprus, Northern Rhodesia. The future seemed uncertain to say the least, so I decided to get out while the going was good.'

  'Back to a calmer more ordered world.'

  'Something like that. After all, one doesn't need a great deal. You learn that as you get older. Take this lodge for example. A man could live here quite comfortably.'

  'But not alone, surely?'

  'All right then, we'll admit Eve into his paradise.'

  'But what would they live on in these barren hills?'

  'There's fish in the stream, deer in the forest.' He laughed. 'Aren't you familiar with that old Italian proverb? One may live well on bread and kisses?'

  'Or chocolate?' she said solemnly, holding up what was left of the bar and they both laughed.

  He opened the door and looked out. It was a night to thank God for, the whole earth fresh after the heat of the day and when a bank of cloud rolled away from the moon the loch and the mountains beyond were bathed in a hard white light. The sky was incredibly beautiful with stars strung away to the horizon where the mountains lifted to meet them.

  He had not heard her move and yet she spoke at his shoulder. 'We could be the only two people left on earth.'

  He turned, aware of her warmth, her closeness, of the eyes shining through the half-darkness and shook his head gently.

  'Not for long, Asta Svensson. Not for long. Listen.'

  She moved out of the porch and stood there looking down the glen to where the sounds echoed faintly between the hills. 'What is it?'

  'A motor vehicle of some description-perhaps two. They'll be here soon.'

  She turned and when she moved back inside, her face was quite calm. 'Then let us be ready for them.'

  She limped to the fireplace and settled herself into the chair and Chavasse stayed in the porch. A cloud covered the face of the moon for perhaps a full minute and as it moved on, moonlight flooding the glen again, two Land Rovers turned off the track and braked to a halt.

  The man who slid from behind the wheel of the first one holding a shotgun was of medium height, thick-set and muscular, his mouth cruel in a pale face. Chavasse recognised him at once from his briefing file. Jack Murdoch, Donner's factor. Fergus Munro came round from the other side of the cab to join him.

  Donner was at the wheel of the second vehicle and a woman sat beside him, her face in darkness, a scarf around her head. Probably Ruth Murray, Donner's secretary, Chavasse decided and then Donner got out of the Land Rover and moved to join the others, an enormously powerful looking figure in a sheepskin coat.

  Murdoch said something, there was the click of the hammers going back on the shotgun and Donner whistled softly. There was a sudden scramble inside his Land Rover and a black shadow materialised from the darkness to stand beside him in the moonlight.

  Chavasse's mouth went dry and fear moved inside him for this was a Doberman Pinscher, the most deadly fighting dog in the world and perfectly capable of killing a man.

  'Flush him out, boy! Flush him out!' Donner said softly.

  As the dog came forward with a rush, Chavasse stepped out of the darkness to meet it. It froze with incredible control, eyes glowing like hot coals and the growl started somewhere at the back of its throat, carrying with it all the menace in the world.

  'That's him, Mr. Donner!' Fergus Munro cried. 'That's the bastard that beat me up and his fancy woman still inside, no doubt.'

  Murdoch moved to join Donner, covering Chavasse with the shotgun and Donner looked him over calmly. When he spoke, his Australian origin was plain to the ear.

  'This is private property, sport. You should have stayed out.'

  There was all the menace in the world in those flat tones and then a tearful, strained voice cut in from the porch. 'Max? Max, is that you? Thank God you're here.'

  Donner looked beyond Chavasse, astonishment on his face as Asta Svensson stumbled from the doorway. She started to sway and he ran, moving with incredible speed for such a big man, catching her as she fell.

  He looked down at her in amazement and then called quickly: 'Ruth, it's Asta! For God's sake get in here quick,' and hurried inside.

  The woman who got out of the Land Rover and crossed to the porch, wore slacks and a sheepskin jacket and was even more attractive in the flesh than Chavasse had expected from her photographs. She looked him over calmly without stopping and went inside.

  Fergus Munro turned to Murdoch, a frown on his face. 'And who in the hell is Asta?'

  'Something tells me you're in for rather an unpleasant shock, Fergy boy,' Chavasse said pleasantly, and he turned before Fergus could reply and followed Ruth Murray into the lodge, the Doberman at his heels.

  Asta was doing very well indeed. She was back in her chair, drinking the glass of water Ruth Murray held for her while Donner leaned over anxiously.

  She looked up at him wanly and reached for his hand. 'No, I'll be all right, Max. Really I will. I had a shock, that's all. There was a man here, a horrible man, and then Mr. Chavasse came and threw him out.'

  'A man?' Donner said, frowning.

  'He threatened me.' Her hand went to her torn blouse. 'In fact he was thoroughly unpleasant.'

  Donner straightened slowly, his face very white and there was murder in his eyes as he turned to face Murdoch who stood in the doorway.

  'Where's Fergus?'

  The roar of an engine breaking into life outside answered him and as he ran out into the porch, one of the Land Rovers drove rapidly away.

  'Shall I get after him?' Murdoch demanded.

  Donner
shook his head, his great hands unclenching slowly. 'No, we'll catch up with him later.' He turned to face Chavasse and held out his hand. 'I'm Max Donner. It would seem I'm considerably in your debt.'

  'Chavasse-Paul Chavasse.'

  Before Donner could reply, Ruth Murray joined them. 'I think she'll be all right, Max. She's tired more than anything else and she's twisted her ankle.'

  'But what was she doing here in the first place? I don't understand.'

  'Apparently she was on her way here by train, bought a map, saw there was a track over Ben Breac and thought she'd try it. She wanted to surprise you by just walking in.'

  'You mean she's come over that damned mountain this afternoon?' Donner said in amazement.

  Ruth Murray nodded. 'I'm not sure where Mr. Chavasse fits in, but he certainly seems to have arrived in the nick of time.'

  There was something in her eyes, some cool doubt that had to be met and Chavasse smiled. 'I'm on my way to Ardmurchan Lodge.'

  'Colonel Craig's place?' Donner said.

  'That's right. He's my uncle. I'm staying with him for a week or two. I was on the same train as Miss Svensson. In fact I noticed her destination from her luggage. When she left the train at Lochside, it seemed strange, so I had a chat with the ticket collector who told me she'd decided to walk over the mountain. He didn't seem to think it was a very good idea. To be perfectly frank, neither did I, so I decided to follow her.'

  'And a damned good job too,' Donner said.

  Asta appeared in the doorway, smiling weakly. 'I'm terribly sorry, everyone. I'm afraid I made something of a fool of myself. Could we go now, Max? I'm rather tired.'

  And as his arm went round her, it was there in the look in his eyes, his instant solicitude, just as Chavasse had guessed from that single photo in the file, that one expression as he had looked up at a sixteen-year-old girl.

  'We'll go now, angel,' he said. 'Right now.' He glanced over his shoulder at Chavasse. 'We can drop you off on the way. We pass your uncle's place.'

  'That would be fine,' Chavasse said.

  Murdoch took the wheel for the drive down the glen, Asta and Donner beside him on the large bench seat, the Doberman at their feet on the floor. Chavasse sat in the rear with Ruth Murray and when the Land Rover swayed on a bend, she leaned against him and smiled.

  'The roads aren't quite up to twentieth century standards, Mr. Chavasse. A trifle primitive like everything else in these parts. Will you be staying long?'

  'Depends how I like it,' he said. 'I could stay for a month if I wanted. I'm a university lecturer and the term doesn't start until October.'

  'Which university?' Donner asked.

  'Essex.'

  The big man nodded, lapsing into silence again and rain rattled against the windscreen. Ruth Murray smiled. 'Here it comes again. Rain, Mr. Chavasse. Rain and yet more rain and the wind driving in from the Atlantic six days out of seven. I could think of more attractive places for a holiday, but then I suppose it depends what you're looking for.'

  'Peace and quiet mainly,' he told her.

  Murdoch changed down and swung into a narrow drive through trees with the lights of a house beyond, and braked to a halt. There was a lamp in the porch and lights showed at a window through a chink in drawn curtains, but it was difficult to see much else of Ardmurchan Lodge in the darkness and driving rain.

  Chavasse started to get out and Asta turned quickly. 'I hope to get a chance to thank you properly, Mr. Chavasse. Tomorrow perhaps?'

  'Plenty of time for that, angel,' Donner told her. 'Let's give Mr. Chavasse a chance to settle in.'

  Chavasse got out and as he had expected, Donner followed. 'I'll just see you to the door,' he said and pressed the bell.

  Footsteps approached almost at once, the door opened and a greying, military-looking man in a black alpaca jacket peered out. 'Yes, who is it?' he said and then he saw Chavasse and opened the door wide. 'Why, Mr. Paul, we were getting quite worried about you.'

  'Hello, George,' Chavasse said briskly. 'You picked up my luggage at Lochailort, did you?'

  'We did, sir. The guard gave us your message.'

  Chavasse turned to Donner. 'I'd ask you in for a drink, but under the circumstances…'

  Donner squeezed his arm. 'I'm the one who'll be supplying the drinks, sport. I'll be in touch.'

  He hurried back to the Land Rover. Chavasse stood there, watching it drive away and when he turned, George drew himself stiffly to attention.

  'Mr. Chavasse? George Gunn, late Company Sergeant Major, Scots Guards. If you'll come this way, sir. Colonel Craig's waiting in the library.'

  7

  Council of war

  Colonel Duncan Craig, D.S.O., M.C. and bar, carried his seventy years well and when he pushed back his chair, stood up and walked to the fireplace, he moved with the physical assurance of a man many years his junior.

  He filled his pipe from a tobacco jar and turned to face Chavasse, the lamplight shining in his white hair. 'Have another brandy, my boy. You look as if you could do with it.'

  'It was rather a long walk,' Chavasse said.

  'At least you've accomplished stage one of this operation as I see it, which was to get to know the girl. Under the circumstances, I should imagine we'll be good for a dinner invitation to Donner's place at the very least.'

  'You sound as if you're looking forward to the prospect.'

  'Eagerly, my boy. Eagerly. There I was, rotting away by inches in Edinburgh with only old George Gunn for company and then Graham Mallory appeared from out of the blue and asked me to go to work again. It's been like a new lease of life, I can tell you. You've read my report?'

  'With interest. There seems to be little doubt in your mind that Donner's up to no good, and yet you haven't given a single concrete reason.'

  The old man shrugged. 'I spent thirty-five years in Military Intelligence, Chavasse. After a while, you get an instinct for things, a sort of sixth sense that tells you when something isn't quite as it should be. You must know what I mean.'

  Chavasse nodded. 'I think I could say it's saved my life on more than one occasion, but I'd still like to hear your reasons.'

  At that moment, the door opened and George Gunn came in with the coffee. Colonel Craig accepted a cup and settled himself comfortably into the armchair by the fire.

  'To start with, I can't find any real reason for Donner's being here. Oh, he's been out after the deer of course, but the season's very short as you probably know. He hasn't bothered with the grouse at all and he doesn't fish. There just isn't anything else to do in this sort of country and he looks to me to be the last sort of man to want to bury himself in the wilds.'

  'How many times have you met him?'

  'Half a dozen-no more. He's always been perfectly civil, but he's refused my invitations and hasn't offered any in return. Now that just doesn't make sense, not in a place like this. Another thing-I don't like the kind of people he's surrounded himself with.'

  'Who do you mean exactly?'

  'Take this fellow Murdoch for a start. I suppose you'll have read his file? He was a captain in a good regiment. Cashiered for embezzlement. I understand he was mixed up in some shady affair in London that ended in a man's death.'

  Chavasse nodded. 'He was tried at the Old Bailey for manslaughter five years ago and acquitted. He went to work for Donner almost immediately afterwards.'

  'And then his house servants are a rum bunch. When I first moved in, I called to pay my respects. The man who answered the door was as ugly a looking customer as I've ever seen, I'd say he would have been more at home as chucker-out in a waterfront saloon.'

  'Was he English?' Chavasse said.

  'That's the strange thing. I couldn't tell. You see he never opened his mouth, simply waved me in and disappeared. I waited in the hall and finally Murdoch arrived and told me Donner wasn't in residence which was a lie because I'd seen that plane of his fly in the same morning.'

  'So all your meetings with Donner have been purely by chance
?'

  'No, he called once to ask me not to fish in Loch Dubh.'

  'Now this really does interest me,' Chavasse said and he took the ordnance survey map of Moidart from his pocket and spread it out on the table. 'You said in your report that you thought something odd was taking place on an island in the middle of the loch.'

  'That's right,' Craig said. 'I was fishing at the lochside one day when some damned rascals Donner has taken on as keepers turned up and escorted me off the estate. They didn't give me much option in the matter either.'

  'Who are these people?'

  'Old Hector Munro and his sons. They're tinkers-the last remnants of a broken clan. They've wandered the high roads since Culloden, but there's nothing romantic about them, believe me. There's old Hector, Fergus …'

  'Will he be the one I had the run-in with earlier this evening?'

  'That's right. He's got one brother-Rory. A big, dark-haired lad and as wild as they come.'

  'And you say they ran you off the estate?'

  Duncan Craig nodded. 'Fergus knocked George down when he tried to stop them. I wrote a stiff letter of complaint to Donner, mainly because I think it would have looked suspicious if I hadn't. I told him I was considering laying a complaint before the County Constabulary.'

  'What happened?'

  'He was on my doorstep next morning, smooth as paint, that secretary of his with him to turn on the charm. Now she's a nice lass if you like, though she seems to think the sun shines out of him. Pretty obvious what he keeps her around for.'

  'And what did he have to say about Loch Dubh?'

  'Gave me some cock and bull story about Arctic Terns nesting in the area and how he didn't want them to be disturbed and he apologised for the Munros. Said he'd kick their backsides and so forth. There wasn't really much I could say. After all, Loch Dubh is on his land.'

  Chavasse examined the map and George, in the act of clearing the table, paused to point out the loch with a jab of his finger.

  'The Black Loch, sir, and black it is, too. About a quarter of a mile wide. That's the island in the centre. There's an old castle there. Built in the fifteenth century by Angus McClaren. Apparently he was known as the Wolf of Moidart.'