by Jack Higgins
He checked his watch again. It was almost nine o'clock. By now Mac should be fairly started. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling and tried to calculate the time the Jamaican would arrive in London. Probably about three in the morning. They should see him back by lunchtime easily. One thing was certain. The plan had to succeed. If it didn't it would put Magellan out of business. Of that there was no doubt.
The door clicked open and she entered the room. She was wearing a black, sleeveless knitted dress that was completely form fitting. She smiled and held out a fur coat and he draped it across her shoulders. 'I'm beginning to wonder if I can afford you,' he told her.
She smiled and led the way towards the front door. 'Don't worry about that. I've got plenty of money.'
For a moment some essential core of male pride caused him to feel resentful and then he smiled. After all, why not? It was O'Connor's money. A car horn sounded outside and when she opened the door they found a white-overalled mechanic standing beside the Jaguar. 'You shouldn't have any trouble with it now, Miss O'Connor,' he said cheerfully.
'Thanks, Jerry,' she told him. She turned to Marlowe. 'You can drive if you like.' He handed her in and then went around to the other side and climbed behind the wheel.
The big car handled like a dream; when they reached the main road leading out of Barford, Marlowe accelerated until the needle lifted towards eighty. 'It's a lovely car,' he told her.
She smiled. 'The best. Haven't you ever wanted a car like this?'
For a brief moment he hovered on the brink of telling her about his past. About the days when he'd driven a car like this all the time. When he'd had money and clothes and women. Everything a man could ever want and yet he didn't tell her these things. He didn't tell her because he suddenly realized that things like that had lost their importance. A car was a car, it had an engine and four wheels and it got you from place to place. Was it really so important to have one that cost two thousand pounds?
He cursed silently. If he went on thinking things like that he was going to spoil the evening. Deliberately he pushed them back into some dark corner of his mind and turned into the car park of the road house which they had now reached. As they walked towards the entrance, he forced his mind to concentrate on enjoying the rest of the evening.
It was eleven o'clock when he turned the car into the courtyard outside Jenny O'Connor's flat and stopped the engine. For a moment they sat in silence and then she said, 'I really enjoyed myself. You dance exceptionally well for such a big man.'
He shrugged. 'Give the credit to those Martinis. I wasn't with you half the time.'
She chuckled. 'Coming in for a night-cap?' She placed a warm hand on his arm and something stirred inside him. After all, why not? He opened the door and started to get out.
A fist lifted into his face and some inexplicable reflex action caused him to duck so that the blow glanced off his cheek. He slammed the door outwards and it thudded against some solid body as he hurled himself forward, ice cold rage surging through him.
A foot tripped him and he hurtled to the cobbles, instinctively putting his hands to his face and rolling away to avoid the swinging kicks. A foot caught him in the side, another grazed his face and then he was on his feet again. Jenny O'Connor hadn't screamed once. For a moment, a terrible suspicion surged through him that perhaps she had played him false and then her front door opened. Light flooded in a golden shaft across the courtyard.
'Inside, Hugh! Inside!' she cried.
In the shaft of light, Blacky Monaghan and his two friends stood revealed. One of them was holding a length of iron railing in both hands and he suddenly darted forward and swung for Marlowe's head. Marlowe ducked and the bar rang against the stone wall behind him. He lifted his foot savagely into the man's crutch. The bar rattled against the cobbles and the man gave a terrible, choking cry and sank to the ground.
Monaghan stood back and wiped a hand across his brow. From the sound of him he'd been drinking. 'That won't do you much good, you bastard,' he snarled. He spoke to his remaining ally without taking his eyes off Marlowe. 'Go get him, Paddy. Slice him up good.'
Paddy took his hand out of his right pocket and slowly opened an old-fashioned bone-handled razor. He started towards Marlowe, his hand extended. Marlowe waited until he was only three or four feet away, then he dropped to one knee, picked up the iron bar his first assailant had dropped and smashed it across Paddy's right arm. The bone snapped like a dry twig. Paddy slipped to the cobbles in a dead faint, his face contorted into a mask of agony.
As Marlowe started to get up from his knee, Monaghan came in with a rush and kicked him in the side, lifting him over and backwards against the wall. The Irishman moved in fast, his foot raised to stamp down on the unprotected face. Marlowe grabbed the foot and twisted and Monaghan fell heavily across him. For several moments they rolled over and over across the cobbles tearing at each other's throats and then, as they crashed into the far wall, Marlowe pulled himself on top. He slammed his fist solidly against the Irishman's jaw twice, and Monaghan's head rolled to one side and he lay still.
Marlowe scrambled to his feet and leaned against the wall for a moment. After a while he turned and walked towards the door. Jenny was standing there looking at him, a strange expression in her eyes. 'My God, can't anyone get the better of you?' she said.
He ignored the remark and pushed her inside. 'You didn't phone the police did you?' She shook her head and he nodded. 'Good! Let me have a double brandy. When I've gone, phone your uncle and tell him what's happened. He'll have to come round to pick his boys up himself.'
She quickly poured brandy and handed him the glass. 'Are they all right?' she said, uncertainty in her voice.
He shrugged. 'That kind are always all right. If you mean have I killed any of them, the answer is no. Your uncle will have to get a doctor though, and the kind of doctor who handles cases like this doesn't come cheap.'
'Blacky Monaghan will kill you next time,' she said with conviction.
Marlowe shrugged and straightened his tie. 'A lot of people have tried to kill me,' he told her. 'I'm still here.'
'Your face is an awful mess,' she said. 'You'd better come into the bathroom and I'll fix it.'
He managed a grin. 'No thanks. O'Connor might have somebody waiting in there for me as well.' He leaned over and brushed her cheek. 'It's been nice, angel, but the party's over for now. I'd better get out of here. Give me five minutes and then phone him.'
As he passed through the courtyard, Paddy was beginning to moan and the third man sobbed steadily like a small child. Marlowe moved rapidly along the dark street. He was lucky. As he emerged into the square, a taxi crossed in front of him and he flagged it down.
He lay back against the upholstered seat and closed his eyes. He was tired, very tired and his body was a mass of bruises. Each time he breathed in, his chest hurt where Monaghan's boot had landed and he wondered if anything was broken. When he considered what had happened he realized that he had been expecting it all night. After all, Monaghan had given him fair warning. He and his friends must have planned the whole thing very carefully.
Marlowe twisted his face into a tired smile. At least he'd kept them busy for the evening while Mac was taking the stuff south. His plan had worked beautifully and he'd got to know Jenny O'Connor very well indeed. Taking it all in all, it had been a profitable evening, kicks and bruises notwithstanding.
He got out of the taxi at the gate and paid the man. For a moment he stood in the darkness listening to the sound of the engine dying away in the distance and then he turned and walked across the yard to the front door.
There was a light on in the kitchen, showing faintly through the crack under the door, and he groped his way towards it and turned the knob. Maria was sitting in an old rocking chair by the kitchen fire crying steadily. She raised a tear-stained face and gave a gasp of horror. 'Oh, Hugh, what have they done to you?'
In a moment she was across the room and in his arms. He held her c
lose as sobs shook her small body and gently smoothed her hair. 'What is it, angel?' he said. 'There's nothing to worry about. They've only chipped the edges a little.'
She raised her face, swollen and puffed up with weeping and said brokenly, 'Mac telephoned through from a little place near Peterborough. He went into a roadside cafe for a cup of tea and when he came out someone had stolen the truck.' She shook her head helplessly from side to side. 'Don't you see what this means, Hugh? We're finished. There's nothing more we can do.'
As her body was shaken with fresh sobs Marlowe held her close and stared bitterly into space. He decided that if O'Connor had been in the room at that moment he would have killed him with his bare hands.
7
Mac returned in the late afternoon of the following day. Marlowe was working on one of the trucks when he heard the engine. He straightened up and started to wipe his hands on an old rag as Mac drove straight into the barn and came to a halt. He switched off and jumped to the ground.
'So you got the truck back?' Marlowe said as he approached.
The Jamaican shook his head. 'Yes, but the load was missing when the police found it. Man, I feel real bad about this.'
Marlowe offered him a cigarette. 'Don't start blaming yourself. The same thing would have happened to me.'
'How's the old man?' Mac asked.
Marlowe struck a match on the wall and held it out to him. 'Not so good. He's taken it pretty hard, and on top of that his rheumatism's got worse. He's in bed.'
'This is going to break him,' Mac said bitterly. 'The dirty bastards.'
'Never mind about them at the moment,' Marlowe said. 'Tell me what happened.'
Mac spread his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. 'That's the crazy thing. Nothing happened. I'd been driving for about three hours when I came to this transport cafe near Peterborough. I parked alongside about fifteen other trucks, and went in and had a cup of tea and a sandwich. When I came out fifteen minutes later, the truck had gone.'
'What did you do then?'
'Got straight on to the local police. The sergeant who handled the case was a nice guy.' Mac laughed shortly. 'He told me it happens every night somewhere along the road.'
Marlowe nodded. 'He's right, it does. That's where O'Connor has been so clever. No hold-up, no coshing, nothing so dramatic. To the police it's just a routine job, and he knows we won't tell them any different.'
Mac nodded and sighed. 'They found the truck at ten o'clock this morning. It was parked up a side road about ten miles from the cafe.'
Marlowe leaned against the wall, his brow knitted in thought. After a while he said, 'Tell me, Mac, what other interests has O'Connor got besides the fruit-and-vegetable game?'
Mac shrugged. 'He has his own sand quarry. That does pretty well, and there's his haulage contract with the Coal Board. Mainly he does general trucking, I'd say.'
Marlowe shook his head impatiently. 'I don't mean his legitimate interests. What does he do under cover of darkness? Papa Magellan told me he had a pretty bad reputation during the war.'
Mac shook his head. 'I wouldn't know about that. I was only there for five or six weeks.' He frowned and narrowed his eyes. 'I'm pretty sure there's plenty of crooked work going on there, but nobody ever took me into their confidence.'
Marlowe was disappointed. 'That's a pity,' he said. 'I was hoping you might have known something.'
Mac suddenly brightened. 'Hey, wait a minute. There's the garage on the Birmingham road.'
Marlowe was immediately interested. 'On the Birmingham road?' he said. 'That's on the other side of Barford. What goes on there?'
'That's just the trouble,' Mac told him. 'I don't know. But it's something mighty peculiar. Only Monaghan and the hard boys were ever allowed up there. Once or twice they sent me up with messages from O'Connor and they never even let me through the doors.'
Marlowe's eye narrowed and he said softly, 'So they wouldn't let you see inside, eh?' He grinned and clapped the Jamaican on the back. 'I think we'll pay them a little visit this evening, Mac. What do you say?'
Mac grinned. 'Anything to get a crack in at those bastards is okay with me, boy.'
Marlowe grinned. 'That's fine. You'd better come in and have something to eat now.' As they walked towards the house he added, 'Whatever you do, don't tell the old man or Maria where we're going tonight. Especially Maria. Leave any explaining to me.'
Mac looked surprised, but nodded his head. 'Okay, boy, have it any way you want.'
Maria was in the kitchen when they went in. She looked tired and pale, and gave Mac a wan smile. 'I'm sure sorry about what's happened,' Mac told her.
She managed a smile. 'Don't blame yourself. We know it wasn't your fault.'
'Can I see your father?' the Jamaican asked her.
She sighed. 'He's pretty sick at the moment. The doctor's been to give him a check-up. He thinks he's got a touch of the flu. He's running a temperature, anyway.'
She led the way upstairs and cautiously opened the door of the old man's bedroom. He looked about ten years older, and his cheeks were hollow and sunken. From the sound of his heavy breathing he was asleep.
Maria gently closed the door and they went back downstairs. 'He sure doesn't look good,' Mac observed soberly.
'Everything's hit him at once,' Maria said. 'And he's facing ruin. It's a wonder he isn't dead.'
Marlowe felt desperately sorry for her. She gave a little sob and leaned on the table, her head down. He slipped an arm round her waist. 'Now then, angel. This isn't like you. Keep smiling. Mac and I are going to canvass the market gardeners this evening. We'll get another load together, perhaps even two. We'll try for London again tomorrow night.'
She smiled and wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. 'Yes, you're right, Hugh. I'm just being silly, and that won't help at all.' She squeezed his hand. 'You're so good to me - both of you.' She smiled again. 'I'll get you your meal.'
They started for Barford in one of the trucks just after seven that evening as the sky was beginning to darken. Marlowe purposely avoided the square on their way through the town, and when Mac tapped him on the shoulder he swung the truck on to a piece of waste ground and killed the motor.
It was by now quite dark and the street lamps were strung away through the darkness back towards Barford like yellow beads. The garage was three or four hundred yards farther along the road, and as they approached it a thin rain began to fall.
When they were about fifty yards away Marlowe stopped and said, 'We won't go any closer this way. You never know who's watching. Let's find a way to get round to the back.'
They tried a narrow alley that was lit with a single old-fashioned gas lamp, and stumbled along its uneven paving. It turned sharply to the right after thirty or forty yards, and continued along the rear of the garage. The brick wall was old and crumbling and about nine feet high. Mac looped his hands, and Marlowe used them as a step and scrambled up on to the wall. He reached down his right hand and heaved the Jamaican up beside him. For a little while they sat there, gaining their bearings, and then they dropped down into the yard inside.
There was an old iron fire-escape up to the second floor, and Marlowe cautiously led the way. They paused on the landing, and he tried the knob of the door. It was locked. For a moment he hesitated, and then Mac stretched out to a near-by window. A moment later he gave a grunt of satisfaction. 'It's open,' he said. There was a creak as the sash was raised, and then he climbed over the rail of the fire escape and scrambled in through the window. Marlowe followed him.
They stood in the darkness listening, and Marlowe was conscious of a peculiar smell. He frowned and sniffed experimentally, and then his brow cleared and he pulled Mac close. 'It's whisky,' he said. 'The real stuff. Can you smell it?'
Mac nodded, and led the way cautiously along the corridor. There was a door at the far end with a broken panel in it through which light streamed. He opened it carefully, and the full aroma of the whisky filled their nostrils.
'But what's going on here?' Mac asked in puzzlement.
'It's a racket as old as the hills,' Marlowe told him. 'Cut liquor. They buy whisky in bulk - it may even be quite good stuff - and dilute it with water. Then they bottle it, stick a well known quality label on, and make at least two hundred per cent profit on each bottle.'
Mac frowned. 'But any drinking man can tell if good liquor's been tampered with.'
Marlowe nodded. 'I know, but this stuff is mainly for the night-club trade, and I don't mean high-class establishments either. The sort of places in Soho where the floozies take the suckers and get a percentage.'
Mac looked about him in awe. 'Man, if we sicked the cops on to this lot friend O'Connor would find himself in real trouble.'
Marlowe nodded grimly. 'About five years' worth.' He went to a door in the corner and opened it quietly. After a moment he beckoned Mac over, motioning him to silence.
They were looking into the main part of the garage. It was empty except for one Bedford three-tonner. It looked like a war-surplus job and was still painted a dull shade of khaki green. There seemed to be no one around. Marlowe approached the truck and peered inside. The interior was full of neatly stacked boxes.
He clambered in and Mac followed him. They squatted down and Marlowe took out a pocket-knife and prised up a corner of the cover of one of the boxes. Inside he could just make out the top of a whisky bottle. He grinned and turned to Mac. 'This must be a load waiting to go out.'
Before Mac could reply there was the sound of a door opening and footsteps approaching the truck. Marlowe quickly motioned to him and they crouched down on the floor. They could hear the conversation quite clearly through the canvas canopy.