# Fear is the Key

Alistair MacLean

A classic novel of ruthless revenge set in the steel jungle of an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico – and on the sea bed below it. Now reissued in a new cover style.A sunken DC-3 lying on the Caribbean floor. Its cargo: ten million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in gold ingots, emeralds and uncut diamonds guarded by the remains of two men, one woman and a very small boy.The fortune was there for the taking, and ready to grab it were a blue-blooded oilman with his own offshore rig, a gangster so cold and independent that even the Mafia couldn’t do business with him and a psychopathic hired assassin.Against them stood one man, and those were his people, those skeletons in their watery coffin. His name was Talbot, and he would bury his dead – but only after he had avenged their murders.

ALISTAIR MACLEAN

### Fear is the Key


## Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Previously published in paperback by Fontana 1963

First published in Great Britain by Collins 1961

Copyright © Devoran Trustees Ltd 1961

Alistair MacLean asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780006159919

Ebook Edition SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007289264

Version: 2016-08-24

## Dedication

To W.A. Murray

## Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Keep Reading

About the Author

By Alistair Maclean

About the Publisher

## PROLOGUE

May 3rd, 1958.

If you could call a ten by six wooden box mounted on a four-wheel trailer an office, then I was sitting in my office. I’d been sitting there for four hours, the earphones were beginning to hurt and the darkness was coming in from the swamps and the sea. But if I had to sit there all night, then I was going to do just that: those earphones were the most important thing in the world. They were the only remaining contact between me and all the world held for me.

Peter should have been within radio range three hours ago. It was a long haul north from Barranquilla, but we’d made that haul a score of times before. Our three DCs were old but as mechanically perfect as unceasing care and meticulous attention could make them. Pete was a fine pilot, Barry a crack navigator, the West Caribbean forecast had been good and it was far too early in the season for hurricanes.

There was no conceivable reason why they shouldn’t have been on the air hours ago. As it was, they must have already passed the point of nearest approach and be drawing away to the north, towards Tampa, their destination. Could they have disobeyed my instructions to make the long dog-leg by the Yucatan Strait and flown the direct route over Cuba instead? All sorts of unpleasant things could happen to planes flying over war-torn Cuba those days. It seemed unlikely, and when I thought of the cargo they were carrying it seemed impossible. Where any element of risk was concerned, Pete was even more cautious and far-seeing than myself.

Over in the corner of my office on wheels a radio was playing softly. It was tuned in to some English-speaking station and for the second time that evening some hill-billy guitar-player was singing softly of the death of mother or wife or sweetheart, I wasn’t sure which. ‘My Red Rose Has Turned to White’ it was called. Red for life and white for death. Red and white – the colours of the three planes of our Trans-Carib Air Charter service. I was glad when the song stopped.

There was nothing much else in the office. A desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet and the big RCA receiver-transmitter powered by a heavy TRS cable that ran through the hole in the door and snaked across the grass and mud and one corner of the tarmac to the main terminal buildings. And there was a mirror. Elizabeth had put that up the only time she’d ever been here and I’d never got around to taking it down.

I looked in the mirror and that was a mistake. Black hair, black brows, dark blue eyes and a white strained haggard face to remind me how desperately worried I was. As if I needed reminding. I looked away and stared out of the window.

That was hardly any better. The only advantage was that I could no longer see myself. I certainly couldn’t see anything else. Even at the best of times there was little enough to see through that window, just the ten empty desolate miles of flat swampland stretching from the Stanley Field airport to Belize, but now that the Honduras rainy season had begun, only that morning, the tiny tidal waves of water rolling endlessly down the single sheet of glass and the torn and lowering and ragged hurrying clouds driving their slanting rain into the parched and steaming earth turned the world beyond the window into a grey and misty nothingness.

I tapped out our call sign. The same result as the last five hundred times I’d tapped it. Silence. I altered the waveband to check that reception was still OK, heard a swift succession of voices, static, singing, music, and homed back on our own frequency again.

The most important flight the Trans-Carib Air Charter Co. had ever made and I had to be stuck here in our tiny sub-office waiting endlessly for the spare carburettor that never came. And until I got it that red and white DC parked not fifty yards away on the apron was about as useful to me right then as a pair of sun-glasses.

They’d have got off from Barranquilla, I was certain of that. I’d had the first news three days ago, the day I’d arrived here, and the coded cable had made no mention of any possible trouble. Everything highly secret, only three permanent civil servants knew anything about it, Lloyd’s willing to carry the risk even although at one of the biggest premiums ever. Even the news, received in a radio report, of an attempted coup d’état yesterday by pro-dictatorship elements to try to prevent the election of the Liberal Lleras hadn’t concerned me too much, for although all military planes and internal services had been grounded, foreign airlines had been excluded: with the state of Colombia’s economy they couldn’t afford to offend even the poorest foreigners, and we just about qualified for that title.

But I’d taken no chances. I’d cabled Pete to take Elizabeth and John with him. If the wrong elements did get in on May 4th – that was tomorrow – and found out what we’d done, the Trans-Carib Air Charter Co. would be for the high jump. But fast. Besides, on the fabulous fee that was being offered for this one freight haul to Tampa …

The phones crackled in my ears. Static, weak, but bang on frequency. As if someone was trying to tune in. I fumbled for the volume switch, turned it to maximum, adjusted the band-switch a hair-line on either side and listened as I’d never listened before. But nothing. No voices, no morse call sign, just nothing. I eased off one of the earphones and reached for a packet of cigarettes.

The radio was still on. For the third time that evening and less than fifteen minutes since I’d heard it last, someone was again singing ‘My Red Rose Has Turned to White.’

I couldn’t stand it any longer. I tore off the phones, crossed to the radio, switched it off with a jerk that almost broke the knob and reached for the bottle under my desk. I poured myself a stiff one, then replaced the headphones.

‘CQR calling CQS. CQR calling CQS. Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Over.’

The whisky splashed across the desk, the glass fell and broke with a tinkering crash on the wooden floor as I grabbed for the transmitter switch and mouthpiece.

‘CQS here, CQS here!’ I shouted. ‘Pete, is that you, Pete? Over.’

‘Me. On course, on time. Sorry for the delay.’ The voice was faint and faraway, but even the flat metallic tone of the speaker couldn’t rob it of its tightness, its anger.

‘I’ve been sitting here for hours.’ My own anger sounded through my relief, and I was no sooner conscious of it than ashamed of it. ‘What’s gone wrong, Pete?’

‘This has gone wrong. Some joker knew what we had aboard. Or maybe he just didn’t like us. He put a squib behind the radio. The detonator went off, the primer went off, but the charge – gelignite or TNT or whatever – failed to explode. Almost wrecked the radio – luckily Barry was carrying a full box of spares. He’s only just managed to fix it.’

My face was wet and my hands were shaking. So, when I spoke again, was my voice.

‘You mean someone planted a bomb? Someone tried to blow the crate apart?’

‘Just that.’

‘Anyone – anyone hurt?’ I dreaded the answer.

‘Relax, brother. Only the radio.’

‘Thank God for that. Let’s hope that’s the end of it.’

‘Not to worry. Besides, we have a watchdog now. A US Army Air Force plane has been with us for the past thirty minutes. Barranquilla must have radioed for an escort to see us in.’ Peter laughed dryly. ‘After all, the Americans have a fair interest in this cargo we have aboard.’

‘What kind of plane?’ I was puzzled, it took a pretty good flier to move two or three hundred miles out into the Gulf of Mexico and pick up an incoming plane without any radio directional bearing. ‘Were you warned of this?’

‘No. But not to worry – he’s genuine, all right. We’ve just been talking to him. Knows all about us and our cargo. It’s an old Mustang, fitted with long-range tanks – a jet fighter couldn’t stay up all this time.’ ‘I see.’ That was me, worrying about nothing, as usual. ‘What’s your course?’

‘040 dead.’

‘Position?’

He said something which I couldn’t catch. Reception was deteriorating, static increasing.’

‘Repeat, please?’

‘Barry’s just working it out. He’s been too busy repairing the radio to navigate.’ A pause. ‘He says two minutes.’

‘Let me talk to Elizabeth.’

‘Wilco.’

Another pause, then the voice that was more to me than all the world. ‘Hallo, darling. Sorry we’ve given you such a fright.’ That was Elizabeth. Sorry she’d given me a fright: never a word of herself.

‘Are you all right? I mean, are you sure you’re –’

‘Of course.’ Her voice, too, was faint and faraway, but the gaiety and the courage and the laughter would have come through to me had she been ten thousand miles away. ‘And we’re almost there. I can see the light of land ahead.’ A moment’s silence, then very softly, the faintest whisper of sound. ‘I love you, darling.’

‘Truly?’

‘Always, always, always.’

I leaned back happily in my chair, relaxed and at ease at last, then jerked forwards, on my feet, half-crouched over the transmitter as there came a sudden exclamation from Elizabeth and then the harsh, urgent shout from Pete.

‘He’s diving on us! The bastard’s diving on us and he’s opened fire. All his guns! He’s coming straight –’

The voice choked off in a bubbling, choking moan, a moan pierced and shattered by a high-pitched feminine cry of agony and in the same instant of time there came to me the staccato thunderous crash of exploding cannon-shells that jarred the earphones on my head. Two seconds it lasted, if that. Then there was no more sound of gunfire, no more moaning, no more crying. Nothing.

Two seconds. Only two seconds. Two seconds to take from me all this life held dear for me, two seconds to leave me alone in an empty and desolate and meaningless world.

My red rose had turned to white.

May 3rd, 1958.

ONE

I don’t quite know what I had expected the man behind the raised polished mahogany desk to look like. Subconsciously, I suppose, I’d looked for him to match up with those misconceptions formed by reading and film-going – in the far-off days when I had had time for such things – that had been as extensive as they had been hopelessly unselective. The only permissible variation in the appearances of the county court judges in the southeastern United States, I had come to believe, was in weight – some were dried-up, lean and stringy, others triple-jowled and built to match – but beyond that any departure from the norm was unthinkable. The judge was invariably an elderly man: his uniform was a crumpled white suit, off-white shirt, bootlace necktie and, on the back of his head, a panama with coloured band: the face was usually red, the nose purplish, the drooping tips of the silver-white Mark Twain moustache stained with bourbon or mint-juleps or whatever it was they drank in those parts; the expression was usually aloof, the bearing aristocratic, the moral principles high and the intelligence only moderate.

Judge Mollison was a big disappointment. He didn’t match up with any of the specifications except perhaps the moral principles, and those weren’t visible. He was young, clean-shaven, impeccably dressed in a well-cut light grey tropical worsted suit and ultra-conservative tie and, as for the mint-juleps, I doubt if he’d ever as much as looked at a bar except to wonder how he might close it. He looked benign, and wasn’t: he looked intelligent, and was. He was highly intelligent, and sharp as a needle. And he’d pinned me now with this sharp needle of his intelligence and was watching me wriggle with a disinterested expression that I didn’t much care for.

‘Come, come,’ he murmured gently. ‘We are waiting for an answer, Mr – ah – Chrysler.’ He didn’t actually say that he didn’t believe that my name was Chrysler, but if any of the spectators on the benches missed his meaning they should have stayed at home. Certainly the bunch of round-eyed schoolgirls, courageously collecting credit marks for their civics course by venturing into this atmosphere of sin and vice and iniquity, didn’t miss it: neither did the sad-eyed dark-blonde girl sitting quietly on the front bench and even the big black ape-like character sitting three benches behind her seemed to get it. At least the broken nose beneath the negligible clearance between eyebrows and hairline seemed to twitch. Maybe it was just the flies. The court-room was full of them. I thought sourly that if appearances were in any way a reflection of character he ought to be in the box while I was below watching him. I turned back to the judge.

‘That’s the third time you’ve had trouble in remembering my name, Judge.’ I said reproachfully. ‘By and by some of the more intelligent citizens listening here are going to catch on. You want to be more careful, my friend.’

‘I am not your friend.’ Judge Mollison’s voice was precise and legal and he sounded as if he meant it. ‘And this is not a trial. There are no jurors to influence. This is only a hearing, Mr – ah – Chrysler.’

‘Chrysler. Not ah-Chrysler. But you’re going to make damned certain that there will be a trial, won’t you, Judge?’

‘You would be advised to mind both your language and your manners,’ the judge said sharply. ‘Don’t forget I have the power to remand you in gaol – indefinitely. Once again, your passport. Where is it?’

‘I don’t know. Lost, I suppose.’

‘Where?’

‘If I knew that it wouldn’t be lost.’

‘We are aware of that,’ the judge said dryly. ‘But if we could localize the area we could notify the appropriate police stations where it might have been handed in. When did you first notice you no longer had your passport and where were you at the time?’

‘Three days ago – and you know as well as I do where I was at the time. Sitting in the dining-room of the La Contessa Motel, eating my dinner and minding my own business when Wild Bill Hickock here and his posse jumped me.’ I gestured at the diminutive alpaca-coated sheriff sitting in a cane-bottomed chair in front of the judge’s bench and thought that there could be no height barriers for the law enforcement officers of Marble Springs: the sheriff and his elevator shoes together couldn’t have topped five feet four. Like the judge, the sheriff was a big disappointment to me. While I had hardly expected a Wild West lawman complete with Frontier Colt I had looked for something like either badge or gun. But no badge, no gun. None that I could see. The only gun in sight in the court-house was a short-barrelled Colt revolver stuck in the holster of the police officer who stood behind and a couple of feet to the right of me.

‘They didn’t jump you,’ Judge Mollison was saying patiently. ‘They were looking for a prisoner who had escaped from the nearby camp of one of our state convict road forces. Marble Springs is a small town and strangers easily identifiable. You are a stranger. It was natural –’

‘Natural!’ I interrupted. ‘Look, Judge, I’ve been talking to the gaoler. He says the convict escaped at six o’clock in the afternoon. The Lone Ranger here picks me up at eight. Was I supposed to have escaped, sawed off my irons, had a bath, shampoo, manicure and shave, had a tailor measure and fit a suit for me, bought underclothes, shirt and shoes –’

‘Such things have happened before,’ the judge interrupted. ‘A desperate man, with a gun or club –’

‘––and grown my hair three inches longer all in the space of two hours?’ I finished.

‘It was dark in there, Judge––’ the sheriff began, but Mollison waved him to silence.

‘You objected to being questioned and searched. Why?’

‘As I said I was minding my own business. I was in a respectable restaurant, giving offence to no one. And where I come from a man doesn’t require a state permit to enable him to breathe and walk around.’

‘He doesn’t here either,’ the judge said patiently. ‘All they wanted was a driver’s licence, insurance card, social security card, old letters, any means of identification. You could have complied with their request.’

‘I was willing to.’

‘Then why this?’ The judge nodded down at the sheriff. I followed his glance. Even when I’d first seen him in the La Contessa the sheriff had struck me as being something less than good-looking and I had to admit that the large plasters on his forehead and across the chin and the corner of the mouth did nothing to improve him.

‘What else do you expect?’ I shrugged. ‘When big boys start playing games little boys should stay home with Mother.’ The sheriff was halfway out of his seat, eyes narrowed and ivory-knuckled fists gripping the cane arms of his chair, but the judge waved him back impatiently. ‘The two gorillas he had with him started roughing me up. It was self-defence.’

‘If they assaulted you,’ the judge asked acidly, ‘how do you account for the fact that one of the officers is still in hospital with damaged knee ligaments and the other has a fractured cheekbone, while you are still unmarked?’

‘Out of training, Judge. The state of Florida should spend more money on teaching its law officers to look after themselves. Maybe if they ate fewer hamburgers and drank less beer –’

‘Be silent!’ There was a brief interval while the judge seemed to be regaining control of himself, and I looked round the court again. The schoolgirls were still goggle-eyed, this beat anything they’d ever had in their civics classes before: the dark-blonde in the front seat was looking at me with a curious half-puzzled expression on her face, as if she were trying to work out something: behind her, his gaze lost in infinity, the man with the broken nose chewed on the stump of a dead cigar with machine-like regularity: the court reporter seemed asleep: the attendant at the door surveyed the scene with an Olympian detachment: beyond him, through the open door, I could see the harsh glare of the late afternoon sun on the dusty white street and beyond that again, glimpsed through a straggling grove of palmettos, the twinkling ripple of sunlight reflecting off the green water of the Gulf of Mexico … The judge seemed to have recovered his composure.

‘We have established,’ he said heavily, ‘that you are truculent, intransigent, insolent and a man of violence. You also carry a gun – a small-bore Lilliput, I believe it is called. I could already commit you for contempt of court, for assaulting and obstructing constables of the law in the course of the performance of their duties and for being in illegal possession of a lethal weapon. But I won’t.’ He paused for a moment, then went on: ‘We will have much more serious charges to prefer against you.’

The court reporter opened one eye for a moment, thought better of it and appeared to go to sleep again. The man with the broken nose removed his cigar, examined it, replaced it and resumed his methodical champing. I said nothing.

‘Where were you before you came here?’ the judge asked abruptly.

‘St Catherine.’

‘I didn’t mean that, but – well, how did you arrive here from St Catherine?’

‘By car.’

‘Describe it – and the driver.’

‘Green saloon – sedan, you’d call it. Middle-aged businessman and his wife. He was grey, she was blonde.’

‘That’s all you can remember?’ Mollison asked politely.

‘That’s all.’

‘I suppose you realize that description would fit a million couples and their cars?’

‘You know how it is,’ I shrugged. ‘When you’re not expecting to be questioned on what you’ve seen you don’t bother –’

‘Quite, quite.’ He could be very acid, this judge. ‘Out of state car, of course?’

‘Yes. But not of course.’

‘Newly arrived in our country and already you know how to identify licence plates of –’

‘He said he came from Philadelphia. I believe that’s out of state.’

The court reporter cleared his throat. The judge quelled him with a cold stare, then turned back to me.

‘And you came to St Catherine from –’

‘Miami.’

‘Same car, of course?’

‘No. Bus.’

The judge looked at the clerk of the court, who shook his head slightly, then turned back to me. His expression was less than friendly.

‘You’re not only a fluent and barefaced liar, Chrysler’ – he’d dropped the ‘Mister’ so I assumed the time for courtesies was past – ‘but a careless one. There’s no bus service from Miami to St Catherine. You stayed the previous night in Miami?’

I nodded.

‘In a hotel,’ he went on. ‘But, of course, you will have forgotten the name of that hotel?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact –’

‘Spare us.’ The judge held up his hand. ‘Your effrontery passes all limits and this court will no longer be trifled with. We have heard enough. Cars, buses, St Catherine, hotels, Miami – lies, all lies. You’ve never been in Miami in your life. Why do you think we kept you on remand for three days?’

‘You tell me,’ I encouraged him.

‘I shall. To make extensive inquiries. We’ve checked with the immigration authorities and every airline flying into Miami. Your name wasn’t on any passenger or aliens list, and no one answering to your description was seen that day. You would not be easily overlooked.’

I knew what he meant, all right. I had the reddest hair and the blackest eyebrows I’d ever seen on anyone and the combination was rather startling. I’d got used to it myself, but I had to admit it took a bit of getting used to. And when you added to that a permanent limp and a scar that ran from the corner of my right brow to the lobe of my right ear – well, when it came to identification, I was the answer to the policeman’s prayer.

‘As far as we can discover,’ the judge went on coldly, ‘you’ve spoken the truth once. Only once.’ He broke off to look at the youth who had just opened the door leading to some chambers in the rear, and lifted his eyebrows in fractional interrogation. No impatience: no irritation: all very calm: Judge Mollison was no pushover.

‘This just came for you, sir,’ the boy said nervously. He showed an envelope. ‘Radio message. I thought –’

‘Bring it here.’ The judge glanced at the envelope, nodded at no one in particular, then turned back to me.

‘As I say, you told the truth just once. You said you had come here from Havana. You did indeed. You left this behind you there, In the police station where you were being held for interrogation and trial.’ He reached into a drawer and held up a small book, blue and gold and white. ‘Recognize it?’

‘A British passport,’ I said calmly. ‘I haven’t got telescopic eyes but I assume that it must be mine otherwise you wouldn’t be making such a song and dance about it. If you had it all the time, then why –?’

‘We were merely trying to discover the degree of your mendacity, which is pretty well complete, and your trustworthiness, which does not appear to exist.’ He looked at me curiously. ‘Surely you must know what this means: if we have the passport, we have much else besides. You appear unmoved. You’re a very cool customer, Chrysler, or very dangerous: or can it be that you are just very stupid?’

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked. ‘Faint?’

‘Our police and immigration authorities happen, for the moment at least, to be on very good terms with their Cuban colleagues.’ He might never have heard my interjection. ‘Our cables to Havana have produced much more than this passport: they have produced much interesting information.’

‘Your name is not Chrysler, it’s Ford. You have spent two and a half years in the West Indies, and are well known to the authorities in all of the principal islands.’

‘Fame, Judge. When you’ve as many friends –’

‘Notoriety. Served three minor prison sentences in two years.’ Judge Mollison was skimming through a paper he had in his hand. ‘No known means of support except three months working as consultant to a Havana salvage and diving firm.’ He looked up at me. ‘And in what – ah – capacity did you serve this firm?’

‘I told ’em how deep the water was.’

He regarded me thoughtfully then returned to his paper.

‘Associate of criminals and smugglers,’ he went on. ‘Chiefly of criminals known to be engaged in the stealing and smuggling of precious stones and metal. Known to have fomented, or attempted to foment, labour troubles in Nassau and Manzanillo, for ends suspected to be other than political. Deported from San Juan, Haiti and Venezuela. Declared persona non grata in Jamaica and refused landing permit in Nassau, Bahamas.’ He broke off and looked at me. ‘A British subject – and not even welcome in British territories.’

‘Sheer prejudice, Judge.’

‘You have, of course, made an illegal entry into the United States.’ Judge Mollison was a difficult man to knock off his stride. ‘How, I don’t pretend to know – it happens constantly in those parts. Probably by Key West and a landing at night somewhere between Port Charlotte and here. It doesn’t matter. And so now, in addition to assaulting officers of the law and carrying a gun without declaring it or possessing a licence for it, you can be charged with illegal entry. A man with your record could collect a stiff sentence for those, Ford.’

‘However, you won’t. Not here, at least. I have consulted with the state immigration authorities and they agree with me that what best meets the case is deportation: we wish no part of any person like you. We understand from the Cuban authorities that you broke custody while being held on a charge of inciting violence among dockworkers and on a further alleged charge of attempted shooting of the policeman who arrested you. Such offences carry heavy penalties in Cuba. The first charge is not an extraditable offence and on the second we have had no demand from the competent authorities. However, as I say, we intend to work not under extradition laws but deportation laws – and we’re deporting you to Havana. The proper authorities will be there to meet your plane when it lands tomorrow morning.’

I stood still and said nothing. The court-room was very quiet. Presently I cleared my throat and said, ‘Judge, I think that’s downright unkind of you.’

‘It depends on the point of view,’ he said indifferently. He rose to go, caught sight of the envelope the youth had brought in and said: ‘No, wait a moment,’ and sat down again, slitting open the envelope. He smiled bleakly at me as he extracted the flimsy sheets of paper.

‘We thought we would ask Interpol to find out what was known about you in your own country, although I hardly think now there will be any further useful information. We have all we want … No, no, I thought not, nothing fresh here, not known … no longer listed. Wait a minute though!’ The calm leisured voice rose to a sudden shout that brought the somnolent reporter jack-in-the-box bolt upright and sent him scurrying after note-book and pen that had spilled over the floor. ‘Wait a minute!’

He turned back to the first page of the cable.

‘37b Rue Paul-Valéry, Paris,’ he read rapidly. ‘Your request received, etc. etc. Regret inform you no criminal listed in rotary card index under name of John Chrysler. Could be any of four others under alias, but unlikely: identification impossible without cephalic index and fingerprints.

‘Remarkable resemblance from your description to the late John Montague Talbot. Reasons for your request and demand for urgency unknown but enclosed please find summarized copy of salient features of Talbot’s life. Regret unable to help you further, etc.

‘John Montague Talbot. Height 5 feet 11 inches, weight 185 lb, deep red hair parted far over on left side, deep blue eyes, heavy black brows, knife scar above right eye, aquiline nose, exceptionally even teeth. Carries left shoulder perceptibly higher than right owing to fairly severe limp.’

The judge looked at me and I looked out the door: I had to admit the description was not at all bad.

‘Date of birth unknown, probably early 1920s. Place of birth unknown. No record of war career. Graduated Manchester University 1948 with B.Sc. in engineering. Employed for three years by Siebe, Gorman & Co.’ He broke off, looked sharply at me. ‘Who are Siebe, Gorman & Co?’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘Of course not. But I have. Very well-known European engineering firm specializing, among other things, in all types of diving equipment. Ties in rather neatly with your employment with a salvage and diving firm in Havana, doesn’t it?’ He obviously didn’t expect an answer, for he carried on reading at once.

‘Specialized in salvage and deep-water recovery. Left Siebe Gorman, joined Dutch salvage firm from which dismissed after eighteen months following inquiries into whereabouts of two missing 28-lb ingots worth 60,000 dollars salvaged by firm in Bombay Harbour from the wreck of the ammunition and treasure ship Fort Strikene which blew up there 14th April, 1944. Returned England, joined Portsmouth salvage and diving firm, associated with “Corners” Moran, notorious jewellery thief, during salvage work on the Nantucket Light which sank off the Lizard, June 1955, carrying valuable cargo diamonds from Amsterdam to New York. Salvaged jewels to the value of 80,000 dollars were found to be missing. Talbot and Moran traced to London, arrested, escaped from police wagon when Talbot shot police officer with small concealed automatic. Police officer subsequently died.’

I was leaning far forward now, my hands gripped tightly on the edge of the box. Every eye was on me but I had eyes only for the judge. There wasn’t a sound to be heard in that stuffy courtroom except the drowsy murmur of flies high up near the ceiling and the soft sighing of a big overhead fan.

‘Talbot and Moran finally traced to riverside rubber warehouse.’ Judge Mollison was reading slowly now, almost haltingly, as if he had to take time to appreciate the significance of what he was saying. ‘Surrounded, ignored order to surrender. For two hours resisted all attempts by police armed with guns and tear-gas bombs to overcome them. Following explosion, entire warehouse swept by uncontrollable fire of great intensity. All exits guarded but no attempt at escape. Both men perished in fire. Twenty-four hours later firemen found no trace of Moran – believed to have been almost completely incinerated. Talbot’s charred remains positively identified by ruby ring worn on left hand, brass buckles of shoes and German 4.25 automatic which he was known to carry habitually …’

The judge’s voice trailed off and he sat in silence several moments. He looked at me, wonderingly, as if unable to credit what he saw, blinked, then slowly swivelled his gaze until he was looking at the little man in the cane chair.

‘A 4.25 mm gun, Sheriff? Have you any idea –?’

‘I do.’ The sheriff’s face was cold and mean and hard and his voice exactly matched his expression. ‘What we call a .21 automatic, and as far as I know there’s only one of that kind made – a German “Lilliput.”’

‘Which was what the prisoner was carrying when you arrested him.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘And he’s wearing a ruby ring on his left hand.’ The judge shook his head again, then looked at me for a long, long moment: you could see the disbelief was slowly giving way to inescapable conviction. ‘The leopard – the criminal leopard – never changes his spots. Wanted for murder – perhaps two murders: who knows what you did to your accomplice in that warehouse? It was his body they found, not yours?’

The court was hushed and shocked and still: a falling pin would have had the lot airborne.

‘A cop-killer.’ The sheriff licked his lips, looked up at Mollison and repeated the words in a whisper. ‘A cop-killer. He’ll swing for that in England, won’t he, Judge?’

The judge was on balance again.

‘It’s not within the jurisdiction of this court to –’

‘Water!’ The voice was mine, and even to my own ears it sounded no more than a croak. I was bent over the side of the box, swaying slightly, propped up by one hand while I mopped my face with a handkerchief held in the other. I’d had plenty of time to figure it out and I think I looked the way I think I ought to have looked. At least, I hoped I did. ‘I – I think I’m going to pass out. Is there – is there no water?’

‘Water?’ The judge sounded half-impatient, half-sympathetic. ‘I’m afraid there’s no –’

‘Over there,’ I gasped. I waved weakly to a spot on the other side of the officer who was guarding me. ‘Please!’

The policeman turned away – I’d have been astonished if he hadn’t – and as he turned I pivoted on both toes and brought my left arm whipping across just below waist level – three inches higher and that studded and heavily brass-buckled belt he wore around his middle would have left me needing a new pair of knuckles. His explosive grunt of agony was still echoing through the shocked stillness of the court-room when I spun him round as he started to fall, snatched the heavy Colt from his holster and was waving it gently around the room even before the policeman had struck the side of the box and slid, coughing and gasping painfully for air, to the wooden floor.

I took in the whole scene with one swift sweeping glance. The man with the nose was staring at me with an expression as near amazement as his primitive features could register, his mouth fallen open, the mangled stub of his cigar clinging impossibly to the corner of his lower lip. The girl with the dark-blonde hair was bent forward, wide-eyed, her hand to her face, her thumb under her chin and her fore-finger crooked across her mouth. The judge was no longer a judge, he was a waxen effigy of himself, as motionless in his chair as if he had just come from the sculptor’s hands. The clerk, the reporter, the door attendant were as rigid as the judge, while the group of school-girls and the elderly spinster in charge were as goggle-eyed as ever, but the curiosity had gone from their faces and fear stepped in to take its place: the teenager nearest to me had her eyebrows arched high up into her forehead and her lips were trembling, she looked as if she were going to start weeping or screaming any moment. I hoped, vaguely, that it wasn’t going to be screaming, then an instant later I realized that it didn’t matter for there was likely going to be a great deal of noise in the very near future indeed. The sheriff hadn’t been so unarmed as I had supposed: he was reaching for his gun.

His draw was not quite the clean swift blurring action to which the cinema of my youth had accustomed me. The long flapping tails of his alpaca coat impeded his hand and he was further hindered by the arm of his cane chair. Fully four seconds elapsed before he reached the butt of his gun.

‘Don’t do it, Sheriff!’ I said quickly. ‘This cannon in my hand is pointing right at you.’

But the little man’s courage, or foolhardiness, seemed to be in inverse proportion to his size. You could tell by his eyes, by the lips ever so slightly drawn back over the tightly clamped tobacco-stained teeth, that there was going to be no stopping him. Except in the only possible way. At the full stretch of my arm I raised the revolver until the barrel was level with my eyes – this business of dead-eye Dan snap-shooting from the hip is strictly for the birds – and as the sheriff’s hand came clear of the folds of his jacket I squeezed the trigger. The reverberating boom of that heavy Colt, magnified many times by the confining walls of that small court-house, quite obliterated any other sound. Whether the sheriff cried out or the bullet struck his hand or the gun in his hand no one could say: all we could be sure of was what we saw, and that was the sheriff’s right arm and whole right side jerking convulsively and the gun spinning backwards to land on a table inches from the note-book of the startled reporter.

Already my Colt was lined up on the man at the door.

‘Come and join us, friend,’ I invited. ‘You look as if you might be having ideas about fetching help.’ I waited till he was halfway down the aisle then whirled round quickly as I heard a scuffling noise behind me.

There had been no need for haste. The policeman was on his feet, but that was all that could be said for him. He was bent almost double, one hand clutching his midriff, the knuckles of the other all but brushing the floor: he was whooping violently, gasping for the breath to ease the pain in his body. Then he slowly straightened to a crouched stooping position, and there was no fear in his face, only hurt and anger and shame and a do-or-die determination.

‘Call off your watchdog, Sheriff,’ I said curtly. ‘He’s liable to get hurt real bad next time.’

The sheriff glared at me venomously and spat out one single unprintable word. He was hunched in his chair, left hand tightly gripping his right wrist: he gave every impression of a man too preoccupied with his own hurt to worry about any damage to others.

‘Give me that gun!’ the policeman demanded hoarsely. His throat seemed to be constricted, he had difficulty in forcing out even those few words. He had taken one lurching step forward and was no more than six feet away. He was only a kid, hardly a day over twenty-one.

‘Judge!’ I said urgently.

‘Don’t do it, Donnelly!’ Judge Mollison had shaken off the first numbing shock. ‘Don’t do it! That man’s a killer. He’s got nothing to lose by killing again. Stay where you are.’

‘Give me that gun.’ Judge Mollison might have been talking to himself for all the effect his words had had. Donnelly’s voice was wooden, unemotional, the voice of a man whose decision lies so far behind that it is no longer a decision but the sole obsessive reason for his existence.

‘Stay where you are, sonny,’ I said quietly. ‘Like the judge said, I have nothing to lose. Take another step forward and I’m going to shoot you in the thigh. Have you any idea what a soft-nosed low-velocity lead bullet does, Donnelly? If it gets your thigh-bone it’ll smash it so badly that you’ll be like me and walk with a limp for the rest of your life: if it gets the femoral artery you’ll like as not bleed to death before – you fool!’

For the second time the court-room shook to the sharp crack and the hollow reverberations of the Colt. Donnelly was on the floor, both hands gripped round his lower thigh, staring up at me with an expression compounded of incomprehension and dazed disbelief.

‘We’ve all got to learn some time,’ I said flatly. I glanced at the doorway, the shots were bound to have attracted attention, but there was no one there. Not that I was anxious on this point: apart from the two constables – both of them temporarily unfit for duty – who had jumped me at the La Contessa, the sheriff and Donnelly constituted the entire police force of Marble Springs. But even so, delay was as foolish as it was dangerous.

‘You won’t get far, Talbot!’ The sheriff’s thin-lipped mouth twisted itself into exaggerated movements as he spoke through tightly clenched teeth. ‘Within five minutes of you leaving, every law officer in the county will be looking for you: within fifteen minutes the call will be state-wide.’ He broke off, wincing, as a spasm of pain twisted his face, and when he looked at me again his expression wasn’t pretty. ‘The call’s going out for a murderer, Talbot, an armed murderer: they’ll have orders to shoot on sight and shoot to kill.’

‘Look, now, Sheriff––’ the judge began, but got no further.

‘Sorry, Judge. He’s mine.’ The sheriff looked down at the policeman lying groaning on the floor. ‘The moment he took that gun he stopped being your business … You better get going, Talbot: you won’t have far to run.’

‘Shoot to kill, eh?’ I said thoughtfully. I looked round the court. ‘No, no, not the gentlemen – they might start getting death or glory ideas about having medals pinned on them …’

‘What the hell you talking about?’ the sheriff demanded.

‘Nor the young ladies of the high school. Hysteria …’ I murmured. I shook my head then looked at the girl with the dark-blonde hair. ‘Sorry, miss, it’ll have to be you.’

‘What – what do you mean?’ Maybe she was scared, maybe she was just acting scared. ‘What do you want?’

‘You. You heard what the Lone Ranger said – as soon as the cops see me they’re going to start shooting at everything in sight. But they wouldn’t shoot at a girl, especially not at one as good looking as you. I’m in a jam, miss, and I need an insurance policy. You’re it. Come on.’

‘Damn it, Talbot, you can’t do that!’ Judge Mollison sounded hoarse, frightened. ‘An innocent girl. You’d put her life in danger –’

‘Not me,’ I pointed out. ‘If anybody’s going to put her life in danger it’ll be the friends of the sheriff here.’

‘But – but Miss Ruthven is my guest. I – I invited her here this afternoon to –’

‘Contravention of the rules of the old southern hospitality. I know. Emily Post would have something to say about this.’ I caught her by the arm, pulled her none too gently to her feet and outside into the aisle. ‘Hurry up, miss, we haven’t –’

I dropped her arm and took one long step up the aisle, clubbed pistol already reversed and swinging. For some time now I’d had my eye on the broken-nosed character three seats behind the girl and the play and shift of expression across the broken landscape of his Neanderthalic features as he struggled to arrive at and finally make a decision couldn’t have been more clearly indicated by ringing bells and coloured lights.

He was almost vertical and halfway out into the aisle, with his right hand reaching deep under the lapel of his coat when the butt end of my Colt caught his right elbow. The impact jarred even my arm so I could only guess what it did to his: quite a lot, if his anguished howl and sudden collapse back into the bench were any criterion. Maybe I’d misjudged the man, maybe he’d only been reaching for another cigar; that would teach him not to carry a cigar-case under his left armpit.

He was still making a great deal of noise when I hobbled my way swiftly up the aisle, pulled the girl out into the porch, slammed the door and locked it. That would only give me ten seconds, fifteen at the most, but it was all I needed. I grabbed the girl’s hand and ran down the path to the street.

There were two cars parked by the kerb. One, an open Chevrolet without any official markings, was the police car in which the sheriff, Donnelly and I had arrived at the court, the other, presumably Judge Mollison’s, a low-built Studebaker Hawk. The judge’s looked to be the faster car of the two, but most of these American cars had automatic drive controls with which I was quite unfamiliar: I didn’t know how to drive a Studebaker and the time it would take me to find out could be fatal. On the other hand, I did know how to operate the automatic drive on a Chevrolet. On the way up to the court-house I’d sat up front beside the sheriff, who drove, and I hadn’t missed a move he made.

‘Get in!’ I nodded my head in the direction of the police car. ‘Fast!’

I saw her open the door out of a corner of an eye while I spared a few moments for the Studebaker. The quickest and most effective way of immobilizing any car is by smashing its distributor. I spent three or four seconds hunting for the bonnet catch before I gave it up and turned my attention to the front tyre nearest me. Had it been a tubeless tyre and had I been carrying my usual automatic, the small calibre steel-jacketed bullet might have failed to make more than a tiny hole, no sooner made than sealed: as it was, the mushrooming Colt bullet split the sidewall wide open and the Studebaker settled with a heavy bump.

The girl was already seated in the Chevrolet. Without bothering to open the door I vaulted over the side into the driving-seat, took one swift glance at the dashboard, grabbed the white plastic handbag the girl held in her lap, broke the catch and ripped the material in my hurry to open it, and emptied the contents on the seat beside me. The car keys were on the top of the pile, which meant she’d shoved them right to the bottom of her bag. I’d have taken long odds that she was good and scared, but longer odds still that she wasn’t terrified.

‘I suppose you thought that was clever?’ I switched on the motor, pressed the automatic drive button, released the handbrake and gunned the motor so savagely that the rear tyres spun and whined furiously on the loose gravel before getting traction. ‘Try anything like that again and you’ll be sorry. Regard that as a promise.’

I am a fairly experienced driver and where road-holding and handling are concerned I am no admirer of American cars: but when it came to straightforward acceleration those big V-8 engines could make the average British and European sports models look silly. The Chevrolet leapt forward as if it had been fitted with a rocket-assisted take-off – I suspected that being a police car it might have had a hotted-up engine – and when I’d straightened it up and had time for a fast look in the mirror we were a hundred yards away from the court-house: I had time only for a glimpse of the judge and the sheriff running out on to the road, staring after the Chevrolet, before a sharp right-angle bend came sweeping towards us: a quick twist of the wheel to the right, a four-wheel drift, the back end breaking away, another twist of the wheel to the left and then, still accelerating, we were clear of the town limits and heading into the open country.

TWO

We were heading almost due north along the highway, a white and dusty ribbon of road built up several feet above the level of the surrounding land. Away to our left the Gulf of Mexico glittered and twinkled like an opalescent emerald under the broiling sun. Between the road and the sea was a flat uninteresting belt of low mangrove coast, to our right swampy forests not of palms or palmettos as I would have expected to find in those parts but pine, and disheartened-looking scrub pine at that.

I wasn’t enjoying the ride. I was pushing the Chev along as fast as I dared, and the soft swinging suspension gave me no feeling of security at all. I had no sun-glasses, and even though the sun was not directly in my face the savage glare of sub-tropical light off that road was harsh and hurtful to the eyes. It was an open car, but the windscreen was so big and deeply curved that we got almost no cooling benefit at all from the wind whistling by our ears at over eighty miles an hour. Back in the court-room, the shade temperature had been close on a hundred: what it was out here in the open I couldn’t even begin to guess. But it was hot, furnace hot: I wasn’t enjoying the ride.

Neither was the girl beside me. She hadn’t even bothered to replace the stuff I’d emptied out of her bag, just sat there with her hands clasped tightly together. Now and again, as we took a fast corner, she reached out to grab the upper edge of the door but otherwise she’d made no movement since we’d left Marble Springs except to tie a white bandanna over her fair hair. She didn’t once look at me, I didn’t even know what colour her eyes were. And she certainly didn’t once speak to me. Once or twice I glanced at her and each time she was staring straight ahead, lips compressed, face pale, a faint red patch burning high up in her left cheek. She was still scared, maybe more scared than ever. Maybe she was wondering what was going to happen to her. I was wondering about that myself.

Eight miles and eight minutes out of Marble Springs the expected happened. Somebody certainly seemed to have thought and moved even faster.

The expected was a road-block. It came at a point where some enterprising firm had built up the land to the right of the road with crushed stones and coral, asphalted it and built a filling station and drivers’ pull-up. Right across the road a car had been drawn up, a big black police car – if the two pivoting searchlights and the big red ‘STOP’ light were not enough, the eight-inch white-lettered ‘POLICE’ sign would have removed all doubt. To the left, just beyond the nose of the police car, the land dropped sharply four or five feet into a ditch that lifted only slowly to the mangrove coast beyond: there was no escape that way. To the right, where the road widened and angled into the courtyard of the filling station, a vertically upright line of black corrugated fifty-gallon oil drums completely blocked the space between the police car and the first of the line of petrol pumps that paralleled the road.

All this I saw in the four or five seconds it took me to bring the shuddering skidding Chevrolet down from 70 to 30 mph, the high-pitched scream in our ears token of the black smoke trail of melted rubber that we were leaving on the white road behind us. I saw, too, the policemen, one crouched behind the bonnet of the police car, a second with his head and right arm just visible above the boot: both of them carried revolvers. A third policeman was standing upright and almost completely hidden behind the nearest petrol pump, but there was nothing hidden about his gun, that most lethal of all close-quarters weapons, a whipper, a sawn-off shotgun firing 20-gauge medium-lead shot.

I was down to 20 mph now, not more than forty yards distant from the block. The policemen, guns levelled on my head, were rising up and moving out into the open when out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the girl reaching for the handle of the door and half-turning away from me as she gathered herself for the leap out of the car. I said nothing, just leaned across, grabbed her arm, jerked her towards me with a savage force that made her gasp with pain and, in the same instant that I transferred my grip to her shoulders and held her half against half in front of me so that the police dared not shoot, jammed my foot flat down on the accelerator.

‘You madman! You’ll kill us!’ For a split second of time she stared at the row of fifty-gallon drums rushing up to meet us, the terror in her face accurately reflecting the terror in her voice, then turned away with a cry and buried her face in my coat, the nails of her hands digging into my upper arms.

We hit the second drum from the left fair and square with the centre of our fender. Subconsciously, I tightened my grip on the girl and the steering wheel and braced myself for the numbing shattering shock, the stunning impact that would crush me against the steering-wheel or pitch me through the windscreen as the 500-lb dead weight of that drum sheared the chassis retaining bolts and smashed the engine back into the driving compartment. But there was no such convulsive shock, just a screeching of metal and a great hollow reverberating clang as the fender lifted the drum clear off the road, a moment of shock when I thought the drum would be carried over the bonnet of the car to smash the windscreen and pin us to the seat. With my free hand I jerked the wheel violently to the left and the cartwheeling drum bounced across the nearside wing and vanished from sight as I regained the road, jerked the wheel in the opposite direction and straightened out. The oil drum had been empty. And not a shot had been fired.

Slowly the girl lifted her head, stared over my shoulder at the road-block dwindling in the distance, than stared at me. Her hands were still gripping both my shoulders, but she was completely unaware of it.

‘You’re mad.’ I could hardly catch the husky whisper through the crescendo roar of the engine. ‘You’re mad, you must be. Crazy mad.’ Maybe she hadn’t been terrified earlier on, but she was now.

‘Move over, lady,’ I requested. ‘You’re blocking my view.’

She moved, perhaps six inches, but her eyes, sick with fear, were still on me. She was trembling violently.

‘You’re mad,’ she repeated. ‘Please, please let me out.’

‘I’m not mad.’ I was paying as much attention to my rear mirror as to the road ahead. ‘I think a little, Miss Ruthven, and I’m observant. They couldn’t have had more than a couple of minutes to prepare that road-block – and it takes more than a couple of minutes to bring six full drums out of store and manhandle them into position. The drum I hit had its filling hole turned towards me – and there was no bung. It had to be empty. And as for letting you out – well, I’m afraid I can’t spare the time. Take a look behind you.’

She looked.

‘They’re – they’re coming after us!’

‘What did you expect them to do – go into the restaurant and have a cup of coffee?’

The road was closer to the sea, now, and winding to follow the indentations of the coast. Traffic was fairly light, but enough to hold me back from overtaking on some blind corners, and the police car behind was steadily gaining on me: the driver knew his car better than I did mine, and the road he obviously knew like the back of his hand. Ten minutes from the road-block he had crept up to within a hundred and fifty yards of us.

The girl had been watching the pursuing car for the past few minutes. Now she turned and stared at me. She made an effort to keep her voice steady, and almost succeeded.

‘What’s – what’s going to happen now?’

‘Anything,’ I said briefly. ‘They’ll likely play rough. I don’t think they can be any too pleased with what happened back there.’ Even as I finished speaking there came, in quick succession, two or three whip-like cracks clearly audible above the whine of the tyres and the roar of the engine. A glance at the girl’s face told me I didn’t need to spell out what was happening. She knew all right.

‘Get down,’ I ordered. ‘That’s it, right down on the floor. Your head, too. Whether it’s bullets or a crash, your best chance is down there.’

When she was crouched so low that all I could see was her shoulders and the back of her blonde head I eased the revolver out of my pocket, abruptly removed my foot from the accelerator, grabbed for the handbrake and hauled hard.

With no tell-tale warning from the foot-operated braking lights, the slowing down of the Chevrolet was as unexpected as it was abrupt, and the screech of tyres and violent slewing of the pursuing police car showed that the driver had been caught completely off balance. I loosed off one quick shot and as I did the windscreen in front of me shattered and starred as a bullet went clear through the centre of it: I fired a second time, and the police car skidded wildly and finished up almost broadside across the road, the nearside front wheel into the ditch on the right-hand side of the road. It was the sort of uncontrollable skid that might have come from a front tyre blowout.

Certainly no harm had come to the policemen inside, within a couple of seconds of hitting the ditch all three were out on the road, squeezing off shots after us as fast as they could pull the triggers: but we were already a hundred, a hundred and fifty yards away and for all the value of revolvers and riot guns in distance work of this kind they might as well have been throwing stones at us. In a few seconds we rounded a curve and they were lost to sight.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘The war’s over. You can get up, Miss Ruthven.’

She straightened and pushed herself back on the seat. Some dark-blonde hair had fallen forward over her face, so she took off her bandanna, fixed her hair and pulled the bandanna on again. Women, I thought: if they fell over a cliff and thought there was company waiting at the bottom, they’d comb their hair on the way down.

When she’d finished tying the knot under her chin she said in a subdued voice, without looking at me: ‘Thank you for making me get down. I – I might have been killed there.’

‘You might,’ I agreed indifferently. ‘But I was thinking about myself, lady, not you. Your continued good health is very closely bound up with mine. Without a real live insurance policy beside me they’d use anything from a hand grenade to a 14-inch naval gun to stop me.’

‘They were trying to hit us then, they were trying to kill us.’ The tremor was back in her voice again as she nodded at the bullet hole in the screen. ‘I was sitting in line with that.’

‘So you were. Chance in a thousand. They must have had orders not to fire indiscriminately, but maybe they were so mad at what happened back at the road-block that they forgot their orders. Likely that they were after one of our rear tyres. Hard to shoot well from a fast-moving car. Or maybe they just can’t shoot well anyway.’

Approaching traffic was still light, maybe two or three cars to the mile, but even that was too much for my peace of mind. Most of the cars were filled with family groups, out-of-state vacationers, and like all vacationers they were not only curious about everything they saw but obviously had the time and the inclination to indulge their curiosity. Every other car slowed down as it approached us and in my rear-view mirror I saw the stop lights of three or four of them come on as the driver tramped on the brakes and the occupants twisted round in their seats. Hollywood and a thousand TV films had made a bullet-scarred windscreen an object readily identifiable by millions.

This was disturbing enough. Worse still was the near certainty that any minute now every local radio station within a hundred miles would be broadcasting the news of what had happened back at the Marble Springs court-house, together with a complete description of the Chevrolet, myself and the blonde girl beside me. The chances were that at least half of those cars approaching me had their radios tuned in to one of those local stations with their interminable record programmes MC’d by disc jockeys with fixations about guitar and hill-billy country music. The inevitable news flash, then all it needed was for one of those cars to be driven by a halfwit out to show his wife and children what a hero he really was all the time although they had never suspected it.

I picked up the girl’s still-empty handbag, stuck my right hand inside it, made a fist and smashed away the centre of the laminated safety plate glass. The hole was now a hundred times bigger than before, but not nearly so conspicuous: in those days of stressed and curved glass, mysteriously shattered windscreens were not so unknown as to give rise to much comment: a flying pebble, a sudden change of temperature, even a loud enough sound at a critical frequency – any of those could blow out a screen.

But it wasn’t enough. I knew it wasn’t enough, and when an excited fast-talking voice broke into the soap opera on the Chev’s radio and gave a concise if highly-coloured account of my escape, warning all highway users to look out for and report the Chev, I knew that I would have to abandon the car, and at once. It was too hot, and on this, the only main north-south route, the chances of escaping detection just didn’t exist. I had to have a new car, and had to have it fast.

I got one almost at once. We had been passing through one of those new towns which mushroom by the score along the seaboards of Florida when I heard the flash, and less than two hundred yards beyond the limits we came to a lay-by on the shore side of the road. There were three cars there, and obviously they had been travelling in company for through a gap in the trees and low scrub that curved round the lay-by I could see a group of seven or eight people picking their way down to the shore, about three hundred yards away: they were carrying with them a barbecue grill, a cooking stove and luncheon baskets: they looked as if they intended making a stay.

I jumped out of the Chev, taking the girl with me, and quickly checked all three cars. Two were convertibles, a third a sports car and all were open. There were no ignition keys in any of the locks, but the sports car owner, as many do, had a spare set in a cubby-hole by the steering column, hidden only by a folded chamois cloth.

I could have just driven off leaving the police car there, but that would have been stupid. As long as the Chev’s whereabouts remained unknown, the search would be concentrated exclusively on it and little attention would be paid to the common car thief who had taken the other: but if the Chev were found in the lay-by then the state-wide search would immediately be switched to the sports car.

Thirty seconds later I had the Chev back at the limits of the new town, slowing down as I came to the first of the all-but-completed split-levels on the shore side of the road. There was no one around, and I didn’t hesitate: I turned in on the concrete drive of the first house, drove straight in under the open tip-up door of the garage, shut off the engine and quickly closed the garage door.

When we emerged from the garage two or three minutes later anyone looking for us would have looked a second or third time before getting suspicious. By coincidence, the girl had been wearing a short-sleeved green blouse of exactly the same shade of colour as my suit, a fact that had been repeated twice over the radio. A fast check point and a dead giveaway. But now the blouse had gone and the white sun-top she’d on beneath it was worn by so many girls that blazing summer afternoon that she’d subtly merged her identity with those of a thousand other women: her blouse was tucked inside my coat, my coat was inside out over my arm with only the grey lining showing and my necktie was in my pocket. I’d taken the bandanna from her, wrapped it kerchief-wise over my head, the loose ends of the knot hanging down the right-hand side, in front, all but obscuring my scar. The red hair showing at the temples was still a giveaway and while, by the time I had finished smearing it with her moistened mascara pencil, it didn’t look like any hair I had ever seen, at least it didn’t look red.

Under the blouse and coat I carried the gun.

Walking slowly so as to minimize my limp, we reached the sports car in three minutes. This, too, like the one we’d just tucked away in the garage, was a Chevrolet, with the same engine as the other, but there the resemblance ended. It was a plastic-bodied two-seater, I’d driven one in Europe, and I knew that the claims for 120 mph were founded on fact.

I waited till a heavy gravel truck came grinding past from the north, started the Corvette’s engine under the sound of its passing – the group of people I’d seen earlier were on the shoreline now but they might just have heard the distinctive note of this car’s engine and might just have been suspicious – made a fast U-turn and took off after the truck. I noticed the startled expression on the girl’s face as we drove off in the direction from which we’d just come.

‘I know. Go on, say it, I’m crazy. Only I’m not crazy. The next road-block won’t be so very far to the north now, and it’ll be no hurried makeshift affair like the last time, it’ll stop a fifty-ton tank. Maybe they’ll guess that I’ll guess that, maybe they’ll conclude that I’ll leave this road and make for the side-roads and dirt-tracks in the swamplands to the east there. Anyway, that’s what I’d figure in their place. Good country for going to ground. So we’ll just go south. They won’t figure on that. And then we’ll hide up for a few hours.’

‘Hide up? Where? Where can you hide up?’ I didn’t answer her question and she went on: ‘Let me go, please! You – you’re quite safe now. You must be. You must be sure of yourself or you wouldn’t be heading this way. Please!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said wearily. ‘Let you go – and within ten minutes every cop in the state will know what kind of car I’m driving and where I’m heading! You must think I’m crazy.’

‘But you can’t trust me,’ she persisted. I hadn’t shot anybody in twenty minutes, she wasn’t scared any longer, at least not too scared to work things out. ‘How do you know I won’t make signs at people, or shout out when you do nothing about it, like at traffic lights, or – or hit you when you’re not looking? How do you know –?’

‘That cop, Donnelly,’ I said apropos of nothing. ‘I wonder if the doctors got to him in time.’

She got the point. The colour that had come back to her face drained out of it again. But she had the best kind of courage, or maybe the worst kind, the kind that gets you into trouble.

‘My father is a sick man, Mr Talbot.’ It was the first time she’d used my name, and I appreciated the ‘Mister’. ‘I’m terribly afraid of what will happen to him when he hears this. He – well, he has a very bad heart and –’

‘And I have a wife and four starving kiddies,’ I interrupted. ‘We can wipe each other’s tears away. Be quiet.’

She said nothing, not even when I pulled up at a drugstore a few moments later, went inside and made a short phone call. She was with me, far enough away not to hear what I was saying but near enough to see the shape of the gun under my folded coat. On the way out I bought cigarettes. The clerk looked at me, then at the Corvette roadster parked outside.

‘Hot day for driving, mister. Come far?’

‘Only from Chilicoote Lake.’ I’d seen the turnoff sign three or four miles to the north. My efforts at an American accent made me wince. ‘Fishing.’

‘Fishing, eh?’ The tone was neutral enough, which was more than could be said for the half-leer in his eyes as he looked over the girl by my side, but my Sir Galahad instincts were in abeyance that afternoon so I let it pass. ‘Catch anything?’

‘Some.’ I had no idea what fish if any were in the local lakes and, when I came to think of it, it seemed unlikely that anyone should take off for those shallow swampy lakes when the whole of the Gulf of Mexico lay at his front door. ‘Lost ’em, though.’ My voice sharpened in remembered anger. ‘Just put the basket down on the road for a moment when some crazy idiot comes past doing eighty. Knocked basket and fish to hell and breakfast. And so much dust on those side roads I couldn’t even catch his number.’

‘You get ’em everywhere.’ His eyes suddenly focused on a point a hundred miles away, then he said quickly: ‘What kind of car, mister?’

‘Blue Chev. Broken windscreen. Why, what’s the matter?’

‘“What’s the matter?” he asks. Do you mean to tell me you haven’t – Did you see the guy drivin’ it?’

‘No. Too fast. Just that he had a lot of red hair, but –’

‘Red hair. Chilicoote Lake. Brother!’ He turned and ran for the phone.

We went out into the sunshine. The girl said: ‘You don’t miss much, do you? How – how can you be so cool? He might have recognized –’

‘Get into the car. Recognized me? He was too busy looking at you. When they made that sun-top I guess they ran out of material but just decided to go ahead and finish it off anyway.’

We got in and drove off. Four miles farther on we came to the place I had noticed on the way up. It was a palm-shaded parking-lot between the road and the shore, and a big sign hung under a temporary wooden archway. ‘Codell Construction Company’ it read, then, underneath, in bigger lettering, ‘Sidewalk Superintendents: Drive Right In.’

I drove right in. There were fifteen, maybe twenty cars already parked inside, some people sitting on the benches provided, but most of them still in the seats of their cars. They were all watching the construction of foundations designed to take a seaward extension of a new town. Four big draglines, caterpillar-mounted power shovels, were crawling slowly, ponderously around, tearing up underwater coral rock from the bay bottom, building up a solid wide foundation, then crawling out on the pier just constructed and tearing up more coral rock. One was building a wide strip straight out to sea: this would be the new street of the community. Two others were making small piers at right angles to the main one – those would be for house lots, each house with its own private landing-stage. A fourth was making a big loop to the north, curving back into land again. A yacht harbour, probably. It was a fascinating process to watch, this making of a town out of the bottom of the sea, only I was in no mood to be fascinated.

I parked the car between a couple of empty convertibles, opened the pack of cigarettes I’d just bought and lit one. The girl half-turned in her seat and was staring at me incredulously.

‘Is this the place you meant when you said we’d go somewhere to hide up?’

‘This is it,’ I assured her.

‘You’re going to stay here?’

‘What’s it look like to you?’

‘With all those people around? Where everyone can see you? Twenty yards off the road where every passing police patrol –’

‘See what I mean? Everyone would think the same as you. This is the last place any hunted man in his senses would think of coming. So it’s the ideal place. So here we stay.’

‘You can’t stay here for ever,’ she said steadily.

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘Just till it gets dark. Move closer, Miss Ruthven, real close. A man fleeing for his life, Miss Ruthven. What picture does that conjure up? An exhausted wild-eyed individual crashing through the high timber or plunging up to his armpits through some of the choicer Florida swamps. Certainly not sitting in the sunshine getting all close and confidential with a pretty girl. Nothing in the world less calculated to arouse suspicion, is there? Move over, lady.’

‘I wish I had a gun in my hand,’ she said quietly.

‘I don’t doubt it. Move over.’

She moved. I felt the uncontrollable shudder of revulsion as her bare shoulder touched mine. I tried to imagine how I would feel if I were a pretty young girl in the company of a murderer, but it was too difficult, I wasn’t a girl, I wasn’t even particularly young or good-looking, so I gave it up, showed her the gun under the coat lying over my knees, and sat back to enjoy the light on-shore breeze that tempered the sunlight filtering through the fronds of the rustling palm trees. But it didn’t look as if the sunlight would be with us too long, that sea breeze being pulled in by the sun-scorched land was laden with moisture and already the tiny white scraps of cloud that had been drifting across the sky were building and thickening up into grey cumulus. I didn’t like that much. I wanted to have the excuse to keep wearing the bandanna on my head.

Maybe ten minutes after we arrived a black police car came along the highway, from the south. I watched in the rear-view mirror as it slowed down and two policemen put their heads out to give the parking-lot a quick once-over. But their scrutiny was as cursory as it was swift, you could see they didn’t really expect to see anything interesting, and the car pulled away before its speed had dropped to walking pace.

The hope in the girl’s eyes – they were grey and cool and clear, I could see now – died out like a snuffed candleflame, the rounding and drooping of her sunburned shoulders unmistakable.

Half an hour later the hope was back. Two motor-cycle cops, helmeted, gauntleted, very tough and very competent, swept in under the archway in perfect unison, stopped in perfect unison and killed their motors on the same instant. For a few seconds they sat there, high gleaming boots astride on the ground, then they dismounted, kicked down the rests and started moving round the cars. One of them had his revolver in his hand.

They started at the car nearest the entrance, with only a quick glance for the car itself but a long penetrating wordless stare for the occupants. They weren’t doing any explaining and they weren’t doing any apologizing: they looked like cops might look if they had heard that another cop had been shot. And was dying. Or dead.

Suddenly they skipped two or three cars and came straight at us. At least, that seemed to be their intention, but they skirted us and headed for a Ford to the left and ahead of us. As they passed by, I felt the girl stiffening, saw her taking a quick deep breath.

‘Don’t do it!’ I flung an arm around her and grabbed her tight. The breath she’d meant for the warning shout was expelled in a gasp of pain. The policeman nearest turned round and saw the girl’s face buried between my shoulder and neck and looked away again. Having seen what he thought he’d seen he made a remark to his companion that wasn’t as sotto voce as it might have been and might have called for action in normal circumstances. But the circumstances weren’t normal. I let it go.

When I released the girl her face was red practically all the way down to the sun-top. Pressed in against my neck she hadn’t been getting much air but I think it was the policeman’s remark that was responsible for most of the colour. Her eyes were wild. For the first time she’d stopped being scared and was fighting mad.

‘I’m going to turn you in.’ Her voice was soft, implacable. ‘Give yourself up.’

The policeman had checked the Ford. The driver had been dressed in a green jacket the same colour as mine, with a panama hat jammed far down on his head: I’d seen him as he’d driven in, his hair was black and his tanned face moustached and chubby. But the police hadn’t moved on. They were no more than five yards away, but the tearing and growling of the big draglines covered our soft voices.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ I said quietly. ‘I have a gun.’

‘And there’s only one bullet in it.’

She was right. Two slugs gone in the courthouse, one blowing out the tyre in the judge’s Studebaker, and two when the police car was chasing us.

‘Quite the little counter, aren’t we?’ I murmured. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to practise counting in hospital after the surgeons have fixed you up. If they can fix you up.’

She looked at me, her lips parted, and said nothing.

‘One little slug, but what an awful mess it can make.’ I brought the gun forward under the coat, pressed it against her. ‘You heard me telling that fool Donnelly what a soft lead slug can do. This barrel is against your hipbone. Do you realize what that means?’ My voice was very low now, very menacing. ‘It’ll shatter that bone beyond repair. It means you’ll never walk again, Miss Ruthven. You’ll never run or dance or swim or sit a horse again. All the rest of your life you’ll have to drag that beautiful body of yours about on a pair of crutches. Or in a bath chair. And in pain all the time. All the days of your life … Still going to shout to the cops?’

She said nothing at first, her face was empty of colour, even her lips were pale.

‘Do you believe me?’ I asked softly.

‘I believe you.’

‘So?’

‘So I’m going to call them,’ she said simply. ‘Maybe you’ll cripple me – but they’ll surely get you. And then you can never kill again. I have to do it.’

‘Your noble sentiments do you credit, Miss Ruthven.’ The jeer in my voice was no reflection of the thoughts in my mind. She was going to do what I wouldn’t have done.

‘Go and call them. Watch them die.’

She stared at me. ‘What – what do you mean? You’ve only one bullet –’

‘And it’s no longer for you. First squawk out of you, lady, and that cop with the gun in his hand gets it. He gets it right through the middle of the chest. I’m pretty good with one of these Colts – you saw how I shot the gun out of the sheriff’s hands. But I’m taking no chances. Through the chest. Then I hold up the other cop – there’ll be no trouble about that, his own gun is still buttoned down, he knows I’m a killer and he doesn’t know my gun will be empty – take his gun, wing him with it and go off.’ I smiled. ‘I don’t think anyone will try to stop me.’

‘But – but I’ll tell him your gun’s empty. I’ll tell –’

‘You come first, lady. An elbow in the solar plexus and you won’t be able to tell anybody anything for the next five minutes.’

There was a long silence, the cops were still there, then she said in a small voice: ‘You’d do it, wouldn’t you?’

‘There’s only one way to find out the answer to that one.’

‘I hate you.’ There was no expression in her voice, the clear grey eyes were dark with despair and defeat. ‘I never thought I could hate anyone so much. It – it scares me.’

‘Stay scared and stay alive.’ I watched the policemen finish their tour of the parking-lot, walk slowly back to their motor bikes and ride away.

The late afternoon wore slowly on. The dragliners growled and crunched and crawled their implacable way out towards the sea. The sidewalk superintendents came and went, but mostly went and soon there were only a couple of cars left in the parking-lot, ours and the Ford belonging to the man in the green coat. And then the steadily darkening cumulus sky reached its final ominous indigo colour and the rain came.

It came with the violence of all sub-tropical storms, and before I could get the unaccustomed hood up my thin cotton shirt was wet as if I had been in the sea. When I’d wound up the side-screens and looked in the mirror, I saw that my face was streaked with black lines from temple to chin – the mascara on my hair had almost washed out. I scrubbed as clean as I could with my handkerchief, then looked at my watch. With the dark cloud obscuring the sky from horizon to horizon, evening had come before its time. Already the cars swishing by on the highway had their sidelights on, although it was still more day than night. I started the engine.

‘You were going to wait until it was dark.’ The girl sounded startled. Maybe she’d been expecting more cops, smarter cops to come along.

‘I was,’ I admitted. ‘But by this time Mr Chas Brooks is going to be doing a song and dance act a few miles back on the highway. His language will be colourful.’

‘Mr Chas Brooks?’ From her tone, I wondered if she really thought I was crazy.

‘Of Pittsburg, California.’ I tapped the licence tag on the steering column. ‘A long way to come to have your car hijacked.’ I lifted my eyes to the machine-gun symphony of the heavy rain drumming on the canvas roof. ‘You don’t think he’ll still be grilling and barbecuing down on the beach in this little lot, do you?’

I pulled out through the makeshift archway and turned right on the highway. When she spoke this time I knew she really did think I was crazy.

‘Marble Springs.’ A pause, then: ‘You’re going back there?’ It was a question and statement both.

‘Right. To the motel – La Contessa. Where the cops picked me up. I left some stuff there and I want to collect it.’

This time she said nothing. Maybe she thought ‘crazy’ a completely inadequate word.

I pulled off the bandanna – in the deepening dusk that white gleam on my head was more conspicuous than my red hair – and went on: ‘Last place they’ll ever think to find me. I’m going to spend the night there, maybe several nights until I find me a boat out. So are you.’ I ignored the involuntary exclamation. ‘That’s the phone call I made back at the drug store. I asked if Room 14 was vacant, they said yes, so I said I’d take it, friends who’d passed through had recommended it as having the nicest view in the motel. In point of fact it has the nicest view. It’s also the most private room, at the seaward end of a long block, it’s right beside the closet where they put my case away when the cops pinched me and it has a nice private little garage where I can stow this machine away and no one will ever ask a question.’

A mile passed, two miles, three and she said nothing. She’d put her green blouse back on, but it was a lacy scrap of nothing, she’d got just as wet as I had when I was trying to fix the roof, and she was having repeated bouts of shivering. The rain had made the air cool. We were approaching the outskirts of Marble Springs when she spoke.

‘You can’t do it. How can you? You’ve got to check in or sign a book or pick up keys or have to go to the restaurant. You can’t just –’

‘Yes, I can. I asked them to have the place opened up ready for us, keys in the garage and room doors, and that we’d check in later: I said we’d come a long way since dawn, that we were bushed and that we’d appreciate room service for meals and a little privacy.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I told the receptionist we were a honeymoon couple. She seemed to understand our request for privacy.’

We were there before she could find an answer. I turned in through an ornate lilac-painted gateway and drew up near the reception hallway in the central block, parking the car directly under a powerful floodlamp which threw such black shadows that my red hair would be all but invisible under the car roof. Over by the entrance stood a negro dressed in a lilac, blue and gold-buttoned uniform that had been designed by a colour-blind man wearing smoked glasses. I called him across.

‘Room 14?’ I asked. ‘Which way, please?’

‘Mr Brooks?’ I nodded, and he went on: ‘I’ve left all the keys ready. Down this way.’

‘Thank you.’ I looked at him. Grey and bent and thin and the faded old eyes the clouded mirrors of a thousand sorrows and defeats. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Charles, sir.’

‘I want some whisky, Charles.’ I passed money across. ‘Scotch not bourbon. And some brandy. Can you?’

‘Right away, sir.’

‘Thanks.’ I let in the gear, drove down the block to No. 14. It was at the end of a narrow peninsula between the gulf to the left and a kidney-shaped swimming pool to the right. The garage door was open and I drove straight in, switched off the car lights, closed the sliding door in the near-darkness, then switched on the overhead light.

At the inner end of the left-hand wall a single door led off the garage. We went through this, into a kitchenette, neat, hygienic and superbly equipped if all you wanted was a cup of coffee and had all night to make it. A door led off this into the bed-sitting-room. Lilac carpet, lilac drapes, lilac bedspread, lilac lamp-shades, lilac seatcovers, the same excruciating motif wherever you looked. Somebody had liked lilac. Two doors off this room: to the left, let into the same wall as the kitchen door, the door to the bathroom: at the far end, the door leading into the corridor.

I was in the corridor within ten seconds of arriving in the room, dragging the girl after me. The closet was no more than six feet away, unlocked, and my bag still where it had been left. I carried it back to the room, unlocked it and was about to start throwing stuff on the bed when a knock came to the door.

‘That will be Charles,’ I murmured. ‘Open the door, stand well back, take the bottles, tell him to keep the change. Don’t try to whisper, make signs or any clever little jumps out into the middle of the corridor. I’ll be watching you from the crack of the bathroom door and my gun will be lined up on your back.’

She didn’t try any of those things. I think she was too cold, miserable and exhausted by the accumulated tension of the day to try anything. The old man handed over the bottles, took the change with a surprised murmur of thanks and closed the door softly behind him.

‘You’re frozen and shivering,’ I said abruptly. ‘I don’t want my insurance policy to go catching pneumonia.’ I fetched a couple of glasses. ‘Some brandy, Miss Ruthven, then a hot bath. Maybe you’ll find something dry in my case.’

‘You’re very kind,’ she said bitterly. ‘But I’ll take the brandy.’

‘No bath, huh?’

‘No.’ A hesitant pause, a glint in her eyes more imagined than seen, and I knew I’d been mistaken in imagining her to be too worn out to try anything. ‘Yes, that too.’

‘Right.’ I waited till she’d finished her glass, dumped my case on the bathroom floor and stood to let her pass. ‘Don’t be all night. I’m hungry.’

The door closed and the key clicked in the lock. There came the sound of water running into the bath, then all the unmistakable soaping and splashing sounds of someone having a bath. All meant to lull any suspicions. Then came the sound of someone towelling themselves, and when, a minute or two later, there came the furious gurgling of water running out of the waste pipe, I eased myself off the door, passed through the two kitchen doors and outside garage door just in time to see the bathroom window open and a little cloud of steam come rushing out. I caught her arm as she lowered herself to the ground, stifled the frightened gasp with my free hand, and led her back inside.

I closed the kitchen door and looked at her. She looked fresh and scrubbed and clean and had one of my white shirts tucked into the waistband of her dirndl. She had tears of mortification in her eyes and defeat in her face, but for all that it was a face worth looking at. Despite our long hours in the car together it was the first time I had really looked at it.

She had wonderful hair, thick and gleaming and parted in the middle and of the same wheat colour and worn in the same braids as that often seen in girls from the East Baltic states or what used to be the Baltic states. But she would never win a Miss America contest, she had too much character in her face for that, she wouldn’t even have been in the running for Miss Marble Springs. The face was slightly Slavonic, the cheekbones too high and wide, the mouth too full, the still grey eyes set too far apart and the nose definitely retroussé. A mobile and intelligent face, a face, I guessed, that could move easily into sympathy and kindness and humour and laughter, when the weariness was gone and the fear taken away. In the days before I had given up the dream of my own slippers and my own fireside, this was the face that would have fitted the dream. She was the sort of person who would wear well, the sort of person who would still be part of you long after the synthetic chromium polished blondes from the production lines of the glamour factory had you climbing up the walls.

I was just standing there, feeling a little sorry for her and feeling a little sorry for myself, when I felt a cold draught on the back of my neck. It came from the direction of the bathroom door and ten seconds ago that bathroom door had been closed and locked. But it wasn’t now.

THREE

It didn’t require the sudden widening of the girl’s eyes to tell me that I wasn’t imagining that cold draught on the back of my neck. A cloud of steam from the overheated bathroom drifted past my right ear, a little bit too much to have escaped through the keyhole of a locked door. About a thousand times too much. I turned slowly, keeping my hands well away from my sides. Maybe I would try something clever later. But not now.

The first thing I noticed was the gun in his hands, and it wasn’t the sort of gun a beginner carries around with him. A big dull black German Mauser 7.63. One of those economical guns; the bullet goes clear through three people at once.

The second thing I noticed was that the bathroom doorway seemed to have shrunk since I’d seen it last. His shoulders didn’t quite touch both sides of the doorway, but that was only because it was a wide doorway. His hat certainly touched the lintel.

The third thing I noticed was the kind of hat he wore and the colour of the jacket. A panama hat, a green jacket. It was our friend and neighbour from the Ford that had been parked beside us earlier that afternoon.

He reached behind him with his left hand and softly closed the bathroom door.

‘You shouldn’t leave windows open. Let me have your gun.’ His voice was quiet and deep, but there was nothing stagy or menacing about it, you could see it was the way he normally spoke.

‘Gun?’ I tried to look baffled.

‘Look, Talbot,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I suspect we’re both what you might call professionals. I suggest we cut the unnecessary dialogue. Gun. The thing you’re carrying in your right coat pocket there. With the finger and thumb of the left hand. So. Now drop it on the carpet. Thank you.’

I kicked the gun across to him without being told. I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t a professional too.

‘Now sit down,’ he said. He smiled at me, and I could see now that his face wasn’t chubby, unless you could call a lump of rock chubby. It was just broad and looked as if you could bounce a two by four off it without achieving very much. The narrow black moustache and the thin, almost Grecian nose looked out of place, as incongruous, almost, as the laughter lines round the eyes and on either side of the mouth. I didn’t place much store on the laughter lines, maybe he only practised smiling when he was beating someone over the head with a gun.

‘You recognized me in the parking-lot?’ I asked.

‘No.’ He broke open the Colt with his left hand, ejected the remaining shell, closed the gun and with a careless flick of his wrist sent it spinning ten feet to land smack in the waste-paper basket. He looked as if he could do this sort of thing ten times out of ten, everything this man tried would always come off: if he was as good as this with his left hand, what could he do with his right? ‘I’d never seen you before this afternoon, I’d never even heard of you when first I saw you in the lot,’ he continued. ‘But I’d seen and heard of this young lady here a hundred times. You’re a Limey, or you’d have heard of her too. Maybe you have, but don’t know who you got there, you wouldn’t be the first person to be fooled by her. No make-up, no accent, hair in kid’s plaits. And you only look and behave like that either if you’ve given up competing – or there’s no one left to compete against.’ He looked at the girl and smiled again. ‘For Mary Blair Ruthven there’s no competition left. When you’re as socially acceptable as she is, and your old man is who he is, then you can dispense with your Bryn Mawr accent and the Antonio hairdo. That’s for those who need them.’

‘And her old man?’

‘Such ignorance. Blair Ruthven. General Blair Ruthven. You’ve heard of the Four Hundred – well, he’s the guy that keeps the register. You’ve heard of the Mayflower – it was old Ruthven’s ancestors who gave the Pilgrims permission to land. And, excepting maybe Paul Getty, he’s the richest oil man in the United States.’

I made no comment, there didn’t seem to be any that would meet the case. I wondered what he’d say if I told him of my pipe-dream of slippers, a fire and a multimillion heiress. Instead I said: ‘And you had your radio switched on in the parking-lot. I hear it. And then a news flash.’

‘That’s it,’ he agreed cheerfully.

‘Who are you?’ It was Mary Blair speaking for the first time since he’d entered and that was what being in the top 1 per cent of the Four Hundred did for you. You didn’t swoon, you didn’t murmur ‘Thank God’ in a broken voice, you didn’t burst into tears and fling your arms round your rescuer’s neck, you just gave him a nice friendly smile which showed he was your equal even if you know quite well he wasn’t and said: ‘Who are you?’

‘Jablonsky, miss. Herman Jablonsky.’

‘I suppose you came over in the Mayflower too,’ I said sourly. I looked consideringly at the girl. ‘Millions and millions of dollars, eh? That’s a lot of money to be walking around. Anyway, that explains away Valentino.’

‘Valentino?’ You could see she still thought I was crazy.

‘The broken-faced gorilla behind you in the court-room. If your old man shows as much judgement in picking oil wells as he does in picking bodyguards, you’re going to be on relief pretty soon.’

‘He’s not my usual––’ She bit her lip, and something like a shadow of pain touched those clear grey eyes. ‘Mr Jablonsky, I owe you a great deal.’

Jablonsky smiled again and said nothing. He fished out a pack of cigarettes, tapped the bottom, extracted one with his teeth, bent back a cardboard match in a paper folder, then threw cigarettes and matches across to me. That’s how the high-class boys operated today. Civilized, courteous, observing all the little niceties, they’d have made the hoodlums of the thirties feel slightly ill. Which made a man like Jablonsky all the more dangerous: like an iceberg, seven-eighths of his lethal menace was out of sight. The old-time hoodlums couldn’t even have begun to cope with him.

‘I take it you are prepared to use that gun,’ Mary Blair went on. She wasn’t as cool and composed as she appeared and sounded; I could see a pulse beating in her neck and it was going like a racing car. ‘I mean, this man can’t do anything to me now?’

‘Nary a thing,’ Jablonsky assured her.

‘Thank you.’ A little sigh escaped her, as if it wasn’t until that moment that she really believed her terror was over, that there was nothing more to fear. She moved across the room. ‘I’ll phone the police.’

‘No,’ Jablonsky said quietly.

She broke step. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said “No”,’ Jablonsky murmured. ‘No phone, no police, I think we’ll leave the law out of it.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Again I could see a couple of red spots burning high up in her cheeks. The last time I’d seen those it had been fear that had put them there, this time it looked like the first stirrings of anger. When your old man had lost count of the number of oil wells he owned, people didn’t cross your path very often. ‘We must have the police,’ she went on, speaking slowly and patiently like someone explaining something to a child. This man is a criminal. A wanted criminal. And a murderer. He killed a man in London.’

‘And in Marble Springs,’ Jablonsky said quietly. ‘Patrolman Donnelly died at five-forty this afternoon.’

‘Donnelly – died?’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Six o’clock news-cast. Got it just before I tailed you out of the parking-lot. Surgeons, transfusion, the lot. He died.’

‘How horrible!’ She looked at me, but it was no more than a flickering glance, she couldn’t bear the sight of me. ‘And – and you say, “Don’t bring the police.” What do you mean?’

‘What I say,’ the big man said equably. ‘No law.’

‘Mr Jablonsky has ideas of his own, Miss Ruthven,’ I said dryly.

‘The result of your trial is a foregone conclusion,’ Jablonsky said to me tonelessly. ‘For a man with three weeks to live, you take things pretty coolly. Don’t touch that phone, miss!’

‘You wouldn’t shoot me.’ She was already across the room. ‘You’re no murderer.’

‘I wouldn’t shoot you,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t have to.’ He reached her in three long strides – he could move as quickly and softly as a cat – took the phone from her, caught her arm and led her back to the chair beside me. She tried to struggle free but Jablonsky didn’t even notice it.

‘You don’t want law, eh?’ I asked thoughtfully. ‘Kind of cramps your style a little bit, friend.’

‘Meaning I don’t want company?’ he murmured. ‘Meaning maybe I would be awful reluctant to fire this gun?’

‘Meaning just that.’

‘I wouldn’t gamble on it,’ he smiled.

I gambled on it. I had my feet gathered under me and my hands on the arms of the chair. The back of my chair was solidly against the wall and I took off in a dive that was almost parallel to the floor, arrowing on for a spot about six inches below his breastbone.

I never got there. I’d wondered what he could do with his right hand and now I found out. With his right hand he could change his gun over to his left, whip a sap from his coat pocket and hit a diving man over the head faster than anyone I’d ever known. He’d been expecting something like that from me, sure: but it was still quite a performance.

By and by someone threw cold water over me and I sat up with a groan and tried to clutch the top of my head. With both hands tied behind your back it’s impossible to clutch the top of your head. So I let my head look after itself, climbed shakily to my feet by pressing my bound hands against the wall at my back and staggered over to the nearest chair. I looked at Jablonsky, and he was busy screwing a perforated black metal cylinder on to the barrel of the Mauser. He looked at me and smiled. He was always smiling.

‘I might not be so lucky a second time,’ he said diffidently.

I scowled.

‘Miss Ruthven,’ he went on. ‘I’m going to use the phone.’

‘Why tell me?’ She was picking up my manners and they didn’t suit her at all.

‘Because I’m going to phone your father. I want you to tell me his number. It won’t be listed.’

‘Why should you phone him?’

‘There’s a reward out for our friend here,’ Jablonsky replied obliquely. ‘It was announced right after the news-cast of Donnelly’s death. The state will pay five thousand dollars for any information leading to the arrest of John Montague Talbot.’ He smiled at me. ‘Montague, eh? Well, I believe I prefer it to Cecil.’

‘Get on with it,’ I said coldly.

‘They must have declared open season on Mr Talbot,’ Jablonsky said. ‘They want him dead or alive and don’t much care which … And General Ruthven has offered to double that reward.’

‘Ten thousand dollars?’ I asked.

‘Ten thousand.’

‘Piker,’ I growled.

‘At the last count old man Ruthven was worth 285 million dollars. He might,’ Jablonsky agreed judiciously, ‘have offered more. A total of fifteen thousand. What’s fifteen thousand?’

‘Go on,’ said the girl. There was a glint in those grey eyes now.

‘He can have his daughter back for fifty thousand bucks,’ Jablonsky said coolly.

‘Fifty thousand!’ Her voice was almost a gasp. If she’d been as poor as me she would have gasped.

Jablonsky nodded. ‘Plus, of course, the fifteen thousand I’ll collect for turning Talbot in as any good citizen should.’

‘Who are you?’ the girl demanded shakily. She didn’t look as if she could take much more of this. ‘What are you?’

‘I’m a guy that wants, let me see – yes, sixty-five thousand bucks.’

‘But this is blackmail!’

‘Blackmail?’ Jablonsky lifted an eyebrow. ‘You want to read up on some law, girlie. In its strict legal sense, blackmail is hush-money – a tribute paid to buy immunity, money extorted by the threat of telling everyone what a heel the blackmailee is. Had General Ruthven anything to hide? I doubt it. Or you might just say that blackmail is demanding money with menaces. Where’s the menace? I’m not menacing you. If your old man doesn’t pay up I’ll just walk away and leave you to Talbot here. Who can blame me? I’m scared of Talbot. He’s a dangerous man. He’s a killer.’

‘But – but then you would get nothing.’

‘I’d get it,’ Jablonsky said comfortably. I tried to imagine this character flustered or unsure of himself: it was impossible. ‘Only a threat. Your old man wouldn’t dare gamble I wouldn’t do it. He’ll pay, all right.’

‘Kidnapping is a federal offence––’ the girl began slowly.

‘So it is,’ Jablonsky agreed cheerfully. ‘The hot chair or the gas chamber. That’s for Talbot. He kidnapped you. All I’m doing is talking about leaving you. No kidnapping there.’ His voice hardened. ‘What hotel is your father staying at?’

‘He’snot at any hotel.’ Her voice was flat and toneless and she’d given up. ‘He’s out on the X 13.’

‘Talk sense,’ Jablonsky said curtly.

‘X 13 is one of his oil rigs. It’s out in the gulf, twelve, maybe fifteen miles from here. I don’t know.’

‘Out in the gulf. You mean one of those floating platforms for drilling for oil? I thought they were all up off the bayou country off Louisiana.’

‘They’re all round now – off Mississippi, Alabama and Florida. Dad’s got one right down near Key West. And they don’t float, they – oh, what does it matter? He’s on X 13.’

‘No phone, huh?’

‘Yes. A submarine cable. And a radio from the shore office.’

‘No radio. Too public. The phone – just ask the operator for the X 13, huh?’

She nodded without speaking, and Jablonsky crossed to the phone, asked the motel switchboard girl for the exchange, asked for the X 13 and stood there waiting, whistling in a peculiarly tuneless fashion until a sudden thought occurred to him.

‘How does your father commute between the rig and shore?’

‘Boat or helicopter. Usually helicopter.’

‘What hotel does he stay at when he’s ashore?’

‘Not a hotel. Just an ordinary family house. He’s got a permanent lease on a place about two miles south of Marble Springs.’

Jablonsky nodded and resumed his whistling. His eyes appeared to be gazing at a remote point in the ceiling, but when I moved a foot a couple of experimental inches those eyes were on me instantly. Mary Ruthven had seen both the movement of my foot and the immediate switch of Jablonsky’s glance, and for a fleeting moment her eyes caught mine. There was no sympathy in it, but I stretched my imagination a little and thought I detected a flicker of fellow-feeling. We were in the same boat and it was sinking fast.

The whistling had stopped. I could hear an indistinguishable crackle of sound then Jablonsky said: ‘I want to speak to General Ruthven. Urgently. It’s about – say that again? I see. I see.’

He depressed the receiver and looked at Mary Ruthven.

‘Your father left the X 13 at 4 p.m., and hasn’t returned. They say he won’t be back until they’ve found you. Blood, it would appear, is thicker than oil. Makes things all the easier for me.’ He got through to the new number he’d been given from the oil rig and asked for the general again. He got him almost at once and didn’t waste a word.

‘General Blair Ruthven … I’ve got news for you, General. Good news and bad. I’ve got your daughter here. That’s the good news. The bad news is that it’ll cost you fifty thousand bucks to get her back.’ Jablonsky broke off and listened, spinning the Mauser gently round his forefinger, smiling as always. ‘No, General, I am not John Talbot. But Talbot’s with me right now. I’ve persuaded him that keeping father and daughter apart any longer is downright inhuman. You know Talbot, General, or you know of him. It took a lot of persuading. Fifty thousand bucks’ worth of persuading.’

The smile suddenly vanished from Jablonsky’s face leaving it bleak and cold and hard. The real Jablonsky. His voice, when he spoke, was softer and deeper than ever and gently reproving as to an erring child.

‘General, do you know what? I just heard a funny little click. The sort of funny little click you hear on a line when some smart-alec nosey picks up an extension and starts flapping his ears or when somebody cuts in a tape recorder. I don’t want any eavesdroppers. No records of private conversations. Neither do you. Not if you ever want to see your daughter again … ah, that’s better. And General, don’t get any funny ideas about telling someone to get through to the cops on another line to ask them to trace this call. We’ll be gone from wherever we are in exactly two minutes from now. What’s your answer? Make it quickly, now.’

Another brief pause, then Jablonsky laughed pleasantly.

‘Threatening you, General? Blackmail, General? Kidnapping, General? Don’t be so silly, General. There’s no law that says that a man can’t run away from a vicious killer, is there? Even if that vicious killer happens to have a kidnappee with him. I’ll just walk out and leave them together. Tell me, are you bargaining for your daughter’s life, General? Is she worth no more to you than less than one-fiftieth of one per cent of all you own? Is that all her value to a doting father? She’s listening in to all this, General. I wonder what she might think of you, eh? Willing to sacrifice her life for an old shoe-button – for that’s all fifty thousand bucks is to you … Sure, sure you can speak to her.’ He beckoned to the girl, who ran across the room and snatched the phone from his hand.

‘Daddy? Daddy! … Yes, yes, it’s me, of course it’s me. Oh, Daddy, I never thought –’

‘Right, that’ll do.’ Jablonsky laid his big square brown hand across the mouthpiece and took the phone from her. ‘Satisfied, General Blair? The genuine article, huh?’ There was a short silence, then Jablonsky smiled broadly. ‘Thank you, General Blair. I’m not worrying about any guarantee. The word of General Ruthven has always been guarantee enough.’ He listened a moment, and when he spoke again the sardonic glint in his eyes as he looked at Mary Ruthven gave the lie to the sincerity in his voice. ‘Besides, you know quite well that if you welshed on that money and had a house full of cops, your daughter would never speak to you again … No need to worry about my not coming. There’s every reason why I should. Fifty thousand, to be exact.’

He hung up. ‘On your feet, Talbot. We have an appointment with high society.’

‘Yes.’ I sat where I was. ‘And then you turn me over to the law and collect your fifteen thousand?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

‘I could give you twenty thousand reasons.’

‘Yeah?’ He looked at me speculatively. ‘Got ’em on you?’

‘Don’t be stupid. Give me a week, or perhaps –’

‘Bird-in-the-hand Jablonsky, pal, that’s me. Get going. Looks like being a nice night’s work.’

He cut my bonds and we went out through the garage. Jablonsky had a hand on the girl’s wrist and a gun about thirty inches from my back. I couldn’t see it, but I didn’t have to. I knew it was there.

Night had come. The wind was rising, from the north-west, and it carried with it the wild harsh smell of the sea and a cold slanting rain that splattered loudly against the rustling dripping fronds of the palms and bounced at an angle off the asphalt pavement at our feet. It was less than a hundred yards to where Jablonsky had left his Ford outside the central block of the motel, but that hundred yards made us good and wet. The parking-lot, in that rain, was deserted, but even Jablonsky had backed his car into the darkest corner. He would. He opened both offside doors of the Ford, then went and stood by the rear door.

‘You first, lady. Other side. You’re driving, Talbot.’ He banged my door shut as I got in behind the wheel, slid into the back seat and closed his own door. He let me feel the Mauser, hard, against the back of my neck in case my memory was failing me.

‘Turn south on the highway.’

I managed to press the proper buttons, eased through the deserted motel courtyard and turned right. Jablonsky said to the girl: ‘Your old man’s place is just off the main highway? Right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any other way of getting there? Back streets? Side roads?’

‘Yes, you can go round the town and –’

‘So. We’ll go straight through. I’m figuring the same way as Talbot figured when he came to the La Contessa – no one will be looking for him within fifty miles of Marble Springs.’

We drove through the town in silence. The roads were almost deserted and there weren’t half a dozen pedestrians to be seen. I caught the red both times at the only two sets of traffic lights in Marble Springs, and both times the Mauser came to rest on the back of my head. By and by we were clear of the town and the rain sheeting down in a torrential cascade that drummed thunderously on the roof and hood of the car. It was like driving under a waterfall and the windscreen-wipers weren’t built for driving under waterfalls. I had to slow down to twenty and even so I was all but blind whenever the headlights of an approaching car spread their whitely-diffused glare over the streaming glass of the windscreen, a blindness which became complete with the spraying wall of water that thudded solidly against screen and offside of the body as the approaching cars swept by with the sibilant whisper of wet rubber on wet roads and a bow-wave that a destroyer captain would have been proud to own.

Mary Ruthven peered into the alternating glare and gloom with her forehead pressed against the windscreen. She probably knew the road well, but she didn’t know it tonight. A north-bound truck growled by at the wrong moment and she almost missed the turn-off.

‘There it is!’ She grabbed my forearm so hard that the Ford skidded for a moment on to the shoulder of the road before I could bring it under control. I caught a glimpse through the rain of a dimly phosphorescent glow on the left and was fifty yards beyond before I stopped. The road was too narrow for a U-turn so I backed and filled until we were heading the other way, crawled up to the illuminated opening in first and turned in slowly. I should have hated to turn in there quickly. As it was, I managed to pull up a few feet short of a six-barred white-painted metal gate that would have stopped a bulldozer.

The gate appeared to be at the end of an almost flat-roofed tunnel. On the left was a seven-foot high white limestone wall, maybe twenty feet long. On the right was a white lodge with an oak door and chintz-covered windows looking out on to the tunnel. Lodge and wall were joined by a shallowly curved roof. I couldn’t see what the roof was made of. I wasn’t interested in it anyway: I was too busy looking at the man who had come through the lodge door even before I had braked to a stop.

He was the dowager’s dream of a chauffeur. He was perfect. He was immaculate. He was a poem in maroon. Even his gleaming riding boots looked maroon. The flaring Bedford cord breeches, the high-buttoned tunic, the gloves perfectly folded under one epaulette, even the peak of the cap were all of the same perfect shade. He took his cap off. His hair wasn’t maroon. It was thick and black and gleaming and parted on the right. He had a smooth brown face and dark eyes set well apart, just like his shoulders. A poem, but no pansy. He was as big as I was, and a whole lot better looking.

Mary Ruthven had the window wound down, and the chauffeur bent to look at her, one sinewy brown hand resting on the edge of the door. When he saw who it was the brown face broke into a wide smile and if the relief and gladness in his eyes weren’t genuine he was the best actor-chauffeur I’d ever known.

‘It is you, Miss Mary.’ The voice was deep, educated and unmistakably English: when you’d two hundred and eighty-five million bucks it didn’t cost but pennies extra to hire a home-grown shepherd to look after your flock of imported Rolls-Royces. English chauffeurs were class. ‘I’m delighted to see you back, ma’am. Are you all right?’

‘I’m delighted to be back, Simon.’ For a brief moment her hand lay over his and squeezed it. She let her breath go in what was half-sigh, half-shudder, and added: ‘I’m all right. How is Daddy?’

‘The general has been worried stiff, Miss Mary. But he’ll be all right now. They told me to expect you. I’ll let them know right away.’ He half-turned, wheeled, craned forward and peered into the back of the car. His body perceptibly stiffened.

‘Yeah, it’s a gun,’ Jablonsky said comfortably from the rear seat. ‘Just holding it, sonny – gets kinda uncomfortable sitting down with a gun in your hip pocket. Haven’t you found that yourself?’ I looked and, sure enough, I could see the slight bulge on the chauffeur’s right hip. ‘Spoils the cut of the Little Lord Fauntleroy suit, don’t it, though?’ Jablonsky went on. ‘And don’t get any funny ideas about using yours. The time for that’s past. Besides, you might hit Talbot. That’s him behind the wheel. Fifteen thousand dollars on the hoof and I want to deliver him in prime condition.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.’ The chauffeur’s face had darkened, his voice was barely civil. ‘I’ll ring the house.’ He turned away, went into the small lobby behind the door, lifted the phone and pressed a button, and as he did so the heavy gate swung open silently, smoothly, of its own accord.

‘All we need now is a moat and a portcullis,’ Jablonsky murmured as we began to move forward. ‘Looks after his 285 million, does the old general. Electrified fences, patrols, dogs, the lot, eh, lady?’

She didn’t answer. We were moving past a big four-car garage attached to the lodge. It was a carport-type garage without doors and I could see I had been right about the Rolls-Royces. There were two of them, one sand-brown and beige, the other gun-metal blue. There was also a Cadillac. That would be for the groceries. Jablonsky was speaking again.

‘Old Fancy-pants back there. The Limey. Where’d you pick that sissy up?’

‘I’d like to see you say that to him without that gun in your hand,’ the girl said quietly. ‘He’s been with us for three years now. Nine months ago three masked men crashed our car with only Kennedy and myself in it. They all carried guns. One’s dead, the other two are still in prison.’

‘A lucky sissy,’ Jablonsky grunted and relapsed into silence.

The asphalt drive-way up to the house was narrow, long, winding and thickly wooded on both sides. The small evergreen leaves of live oak and long dripping grey festoons of Spanish moss reached out and brushed the roof and sidescreens of the car. Suddenly the trees receded on both sides from the beams of the headlamps, giving way to strategically placed clumps of palms and palmettos, and there, behind a stepped granite balustrade wall and a gravel terrace, lay the general’s house.

Built as an ordinary family house, the girl had said. Built for a family of about fifty. It was enormous. It was an old white ante-bellum-type house, so Colonial that it creaked, with a huge pillared two-storey porch, a curiously double-angled roof of a type I’d never seen before and enough glass to keep an active window-cleaner in year-round employment. Over the entrance of the lower porch were two more lights, big old-fashioned coach lamps each with a powerful electric bulb inside. Below the lamps stood the reception committee.

I hadn’t expected the reception committee. Subconsciously, I suppose, I had expected the old high-class routine of being welcomed by the butler and deferentially and ceremoniously conducted to the library where the general would be sipping his Scotch before a crackling pine fire. Which was pretty silly, when you come to think of it. When you’re expecting a daughter back from the dead and the door-bell rings, you don’t just keep on sipping whisky. Not if you’re halfway human. The chauffeur had warned them: hence the committee.

The butler was there too. He came down the steps of the porch carrying a huge golf umbrella out into the heavy rain. He didn’t look like any butler I’d ever seen. His coat was far too tight round his upper arms, shoulders and chest in a fashion that used to be popular among prohibition gangsters and his face did nothing to dispel the impression. He looked first cousin to Valentino, the bodyguard back in the court-room. Or maybe even more closely related. He even had the same broken nose. The general had a weird taste in butlers, especially when you considered his choice of chauffeur.

But the butler seemed courteous enough. At least I thought he was until he saw who it was behind the driving-wheel and then he made a smart about turn, went round the front of the car and escorted Mary Ruthven to the shelter of the porch where she ran forward and threw her arms round her father’s neck. Jablonsky and I had to make it alone. We got wet, but no one seemed worried.

By this time the girl had become disentangled from her father. I had a good look at him. He was an immensely tall old coot, thin but not too thin, in a silver-white linen suit. The colour of the suit was a perfect match for the hair. He had a long lean craggy Lincolnesque face, but just how craggy it was impossible to say for almost half of it was hidden behind a luxuriant white moustache and beard. He didn’t look like any big business magnate I’d ever come across, but with 285 million dollars he didn’t have to. He looked like the way I’d expected a southern judge to look and didn’t.

‘Come in, gentlemen,’ he said courteously. I wondered if he included me among the three other men standing in the shadows in the porch. It seemed unlikely, but I went in all the same. I hadn’t much option. Not only was Jablonsky’s Mauser jammed into the small of my back but another man who’d just stepped out of the shadow also carried a gun. We trooped across a huge, wide, chandelier-lit, tessellated-tile floored hall, down a broad passage and into a large room. I’d been right about the room anyway. It was a library, it did have a blazing pine fire and the slightly oily smell of fine leather-bound books mingled very pleasantly with the aroma of expensive Coronas and a high-class Scotch. I noticed there was nobody there smoking cigars. The walls that weren’t covered with bookshelves were panelled in polished elm. Chairs and settees were in dark gold leather and moquette, and the curtains of shot gold. A bronze-coloured carpet flowed over the floor from wall to wall and with a strong enough draught the nap on it would have waved and undulated like a wind-rippled field of summer corn. As it was, the chair castors were so deeply sunk in it as to be almost invisible.

‘Scotch, Mr – ah –?’ the general asked Jablonsky.

‘Jablonsky. I don’t mind, General. While I’m standing. And while I’m waiting.’

‘Waiting for what, Mr Jablonsky?’ General Ruthven had a quiet pleasant voice with very little inflection in it. With 285 million bucks you don’t have to shout to make yourself heard.

‘Ain’t you the little kidder, now?’ Jablonsky was as quiet, as unruffled as the general. ‘For the little paper, General, with your name signed at the bottom. For the fifty thousand iron men.’

‘Of course.’ The general seemed faintly surprised that Jablonsky should think it necessary to remind him of the agreement. He crossed to the dressed-stone mantelpiece, pulled a yellow bank slip from under a paper-weight. ‘I have it here, just the payee’s name to be filled in.’ I thought a slight smile touched his mouth but under all that foliage it was difficult to be sure. ‘And you needn’t worry about my phoning the bank with instructions not to honour this cheque. Such is not my way of doing business.’