Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

Also by Jack Higgins

Copyright

About the Publisher

for my Mother and Father

1

They released Marlowe from Wandsworth shortly after eight o’clock on a wet September morning. When the gate was opened he hesitated for a moment before stepping outside and the man on duty gave him a push forward. ‘See you again,’ he observed, cynically.

‘Like hell, you will,’ Marlowe said over his shoulder.

He walked down towards the main road, a big, dangerous-looking man, massive shoulders swelling under the cheap raincoat they had given him. He stood on the corner watching the early morning traffic and a flurry of wind lifted cold rain into his face. On the opposite side of the road was a snack bar. For a moment he hesitated, fingering the money in his pocket, and then he took advantage of a break in the traffic and crossed over.

When he pushed open the door, a bell tinkled in the stillness. The place was deserted. He sat on one of the high stools at the counter and waited. After a few moments an old, white-haired man emerged from a door at the rear. He peered over the top of steel-rimmed spectacles and a slow smile appeared on his face. ‘What would you like, son?’ he said.

Marlowe’s fingers tightened over the coins. For a moment he was unable to speak and then he managed to say, ‘Give me twenty cigarettes.’

The old man was already reaching for them. For a brief second Marlowe looked at the packet and then he quickly opened it and took out a cigarette. A match flared in the old man’s hands and Marlowe reached forward. He inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke with a great sigh. ‘Christ, but I was waiting for that,’ he said.

The old man chuckled sympathetically and poured strong coffee from a battered metal pot into a mug. He added milk and pushed it across. Marlowe reached for his money and the old man smiled and raised a hand. ‘It’s on the house.’

For a moment they looked at each other steadily and then Marlowe laughed. ‘How can you tell?’ he said.

The old man leaned on the counter and shrugged. ‘I’ve kept this place for twenty years. Nearly every day during that time someone has walked down the street opposite and stood on that corner. Then they see this place and it’s straight in for a packet of cigarettes.’

Marlowe grinned. ‘You can’t blame them can you?’ He drank some of the coffee and sighed with pleasure. ‘That tastes good. After five years of drinking swill I’d forgotten what good coffee was like.’

The old man nodded and said quietly, ‘That’s a long time. Things can change a lot in five years.’

Marlowe looked out of the window. ‘You’re damned right they can. I’ve been watching the cars. They all look different somehow. Even people’s clothes look different.’

‘They are different,’ the old man said. ‘And the people inside them are different too.’

Marlowe laughed bitterly and swallowed the rest of his coffee. ‘Aren’t we all?’ he said. ‘Everything changes. Everything.’

‘More coffee?’ the old man asked gently.

Marlowe shook his head and stood up. ‘No, I’ve got to get moving.’

The old man produced a cloth and carefully wiped the counter. ‘Where are you going, son? The Prisoners’ Aid Society?’

Marlowe laughed briefly and a flash of genuine amusement showed in his cold grey eyes. ‘Now I ask you. Do I look the sort of bloke that would apply to those people?’

The old man sighed and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘You look like a man who would never ask anybody for anything.’

Marlowe grinned and lit another cigarette. ‘That’s right, Dad. That way you never owe anybody anything.’ He opened the door. ‘Thanks for the cigarettes. I’ll be seeing you.’

The old man shook his head. ‘I hope not.’

Marlowe grinned again. ‘Okay, Dad, I’ll try to oblige.’ He closed the door behind him and began to walk along the pavement.

The rain had increased in force and bounced from the pavement in long solid rods. It soaked through the cheap raincoat within a few seconds and he cursed and hurried towards a bus shelter. The traffic had slackened down to an occasional truck or car and the pavements were deserted. As he approached the shelter a large black saloon turned into the kerb slightly ahead of him.

As he moved alongside the car a voice said, ‘Hallo, Hugh. We’ve been waiting for you. It’s been a long time.’

Marlowe stood quite still. The skin had tightened over his prominent cheekbones, but otherwise he showed no emotion. He approached the car and looked in at the man who sat behind the wheel. ‘Hallo, you bastard!’ he said.

A rough voice snarled from the rear seat. ‘Watch it, Marlowe! You can’t talk to Mr Faulkner like that.’

The man who had spoken was thick set with the coarse, battered features of a prizefighter. Next to him sat a small wiry man whose cold beady eyes were like holes in his white face.

Marlowe’s gaze flickered over them contemptuously. ‘The old firm. It must smell pretty high in there when you have the windows closed.’

The large man made a convulsive movement and Faulkner cried warningly, ‘Butcher!’ He subsided, swearing violently under his breath, and Faulkner said, ‘Yes, the old firm, Hugh, and don’t forget you’re still a partner.’

Marlowe shook his head. ‘You dissolved our partnership a long time ago.’

Faulkner frowned. ‘I think not, my friend. We still have some unfinished business to settle.’

Marlowe smiled coldly. ‘Five years inside has made me greedy, Faulkner. I’m not declaring a dividend this year.’ He laughed harshly. ‘What kind of a mug do you think I am? Go on, get out of it. And keep away from me.’

As he straightened up, the rear door started to open and a hairy paw reached out towards him. He slammed the door shut with all his force, trapping the hand so that blood spurted from beneath the fingernails. Butcher gave a cry of agony, and Marlowe leaned in the window and said, ‘That’s for leaving me in the lurch the night we did the Birmingham job.’ He spat in Butcher’s face and turned away.

He ducked into a narrow alley and began to walk rapidly along the uneven pavement. Behind him car-doors slammed and there was a heavy pounding of footsteps. He threw a hasty glance over his shoulder as the small man rounded the corner, steel glinting in his hand. Behind him lumbered Butcher, cursing freely as he wrapped a handkerchief about his right fist.

At any other time he would have turned and faced them, but not now. He had other things to do. He started running along the alley, splashing in the rain-filled gutter, his feet slipping dangerously on the greasy cobbles.

The small man gave a cry of triumph and Marlowe ground his teeth together with rage. So they thought they had him on the run, did they? They thought the years behind the high wall had made him soft. He resisted the impulse to stop running and increased his pace.

He rounded the corner at the end of the alley into a quiet street of terrace houses. For a brief moment he hesitated and then, as he started forward, he slipped and crashed to the pavement. As he scrambled to his feet a door opened and a woman stepped out with a shopping-basket on one arm. Marlowe lurched towards her and she stepped back quickly with a cry of alarm and slammed the door in his face. There came another shout from behind, and as he started to stumble painfully along the pavement a large black saloon turned into the road and came towards him.

A sudden burning anger rose inside and he clenched his fists as the car swerved into the kerb a few yards away. The rear door opened and a large, heavily built man in a brown raincoat and Homburg hat clambered out and stood, hands in pockets, waiting.

Marlowe came to a sudden halt. Behind him he could hear the sound of his pursuers’ footsteps fading rapidly into the distance. The large man smiled and shook his head, white teeth gleaming beneath a clipped moustache. ‘You haven’t wasted any time, Marlowe.’

Marlowe grinned and walked towards him. ‘I never thought the day would come when I’d be glad to see you, Masters,’ he said.

‘It’s a day for surprises,’ Masters retorted. ‘I never thought I’d live to see you run from a couple of rats like Butcher and Harris.’

Marlowe scowled. ‘I’ve got more important things to do. I can deal with those two any time.’

Masters nodded. ‘I don’t doubt it, but there’s always Faulkner.’ He took out a short pipe and began to fill it from a leather pouch. ‘He saw us coming, by the way, and took off. I’m afraid Butcher and Harris are going to get very wet looking for him.’ He frowned suddenly as if the idea had just occurred to him. ‘Of course, you could always prefer charges.’

Marlowe grinned. ‘What for? We were only having a little exercise.’

The rain increased in volume with a sudden rush, and Masters opened the rear door of the car and said, ‘Let’s continue this conversation in comfort at least.’

For a moment Marlowe hesitated and then he shrugged and climbed in. There was a tall young man in a fawn raincoat behind the wheel. He turned his head and said, ‘Where to, Superintendent?’

Marlowe whistled. ‘A super now, eh? They must be getting hard up.’

Masters ignored the thrust. ‘Anywhere in particular you’d like to go?’ Marlowe raised one eyebrow and took out his cigarettes. Masters smiled faintly and said to the driver, ‘Just take us towards town, Cameron. My friend and I have a lot to talk over.’

Marlowe blew smoke out and leaned back. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you, Masters.’

Masters held a match to his pipe. After a moment he leaned back with a sigh. ‘I wouldn’t say that. There’s a little matter of twenty thousand quid I want from you.’

Marlowe threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’ve got a hope.’ He looked the policeman squarely in the eye. ‘Listen, Masters. I was sent up for seven years. I’ve done five like a good little boy and now I’m out. Nobody can lay a finger on me. I’m clean as a whistle as far as the law is concerned.’

Masters shook his head. ‘There’s nothing very clean about you, Marlowe.’

Marlowe turned towards him, a fist raised, and the driver braked suddenly so that the car skidded a little. Masters smiled calmly. ‘Keep going, Cameron. My friend isn’t going to cause any trouble.’

Marlowe cursed and reached for the door handle. ‘Okay, Masters. I’ve had enough. Stop the car and let me out.’

Masters shook his head. ‘Oh, no, I haven’t finished with you yet.’ He puffed at his pipe reflectively for a moment. ‘I’ve never been able to understand you, Marlowe. Not at your trial and not now. You had a normal enough background, a good education. You were even decorated in Korea, and then you came home and turned yourself into a lousy crook, a cheap hoodlum hanging round the big boys looking for easy pickings.’

Marlowe was calmer now. He said, ‘I never waited around for anyone’s pickings and you know it.’

‘But you were driving for Faulkner and his bunch, weren’t you?’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘Why ask me? You seem to know all the answers.’

Masters shook his head. ‘Not all of them, but I intend to.’ He applied another match to his pipe and continued, ‘It’s just over five years since that Iron Amalgamated job was done in Birmingham. Whoever did it lifted over twenty thousand pounds, the wages for the following day. But they didn’t cosh the night-watchman hard enough. He raised the alarm and the car was chased through the city. It crashed in a side street, and when a patrol car got there you were behind the wheel, half conscious. They dragged you out of the wreck clutching a black case. You wouldn’t let go of it. One of the constables went to the end of the street to guide the other cars in and when he returned, his partner was laid out and you’d disappeared – with the bag, of course.’

Marlowe raised his eyebrows and yawned deliberately. ‘I’m beginning to get bored. This is like seeing a film round twice.’

Masters smiled pleasantly. ‘Wait a minute. It gets more interesting. You were picked up in Paddington Station next day. How the hell you managed to get clear of Birmingham I’ll never know, but the important thing was that the money was gone.’ He held the stem of his pipe against the side of his nose and said, ‘Now I wonder where it got to?’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘I said all I had to say at the trial. They proved I was driving the car. They gave me seven years, and now I’m out. So what?’

Masters nodded. ‘But there’s still the question of the money. You never did got around to telling us what you did with it.’

‘You know, you’ve got a point there.’ Marlowe dropped his voice a tone. ‘Promise you won’t let this go any further, but I gave all the money to a charity that’s very near to my heart. It’s a society that takes care of destitute policemen.’

‘Very funny,’ Masters said. ‘As it happens, I prefer my own version. Faulkner pulled that Birmingham job, though we’ve never been able to prove it because you kept your mouth shut.’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘So where does that get you?’

‘To this,’ Masters said. ‘Faulkner pulled the job, but he never got his hands on the cash.’ Marlowe started to speak but the policeman went on, ‘It’s no use denying it. I’ve got my contacts and I know he’s been keeping pretty close tabs on you while you’ve been inside. The way I see it this is what happened. When your car crashed that night, Faulkner, Butcher and Harris were with you. You were stunned. In a blind panic, they ran for it, leaving you. Maybe they forgot the money in the heat of the moment or perhaps they left it deliberately, hoping the police would think it was a one-man job. By a miracle you got away, because I picked you up myself in Paddington Station next day, but the money had disappeared.’

Marlowe stared out of the window, a frown on his face. ‘What if it’s all true? What if it happened exactly as you say? It still won’t get you anywhere.’ He laughed contemptuously. ‘If you caught me with the money in my pockets you couldn’t touch me. I’ve served my time.’

Masters sighed deeply. ‘You know, I thought you were smart, Marlowe. That’s what used to make you stand out amongst the crowd of mugs that hung around Faulkner’s club in the old days.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you think you’ll ever get to spend that money? Will you hell. I’m after it because to me it’s part of an unfinished case. Faulkner’s after it, and Butcher and Harris and every other cheap crook that knows the story. You’re branded clear to the bone.’

Marlowe swung round and gripped Masters by the right arm. His face had turned to stone and there was a terrible expression in his eyes. ‘Listen to me, Masters,’ he said, ‘and listen good. If anybody gets in my way I’ll stamp him into the ground, and that goes for you, too.’ His fingers dug painfully into the policeman’s arm and his voice trembled slightly. ‘I spent three years in a Chinese prison camp, Masters. Did you know that? I worked in a coal mine in Manchuria for twelve hours a day up to my knees in water. Most of my friends died, but I came home. And do you know what? Nobody seemed to know a war had been going on.’

‘Is that supposed to be an excuse?’ Masters said.

Marlowe ignored him. ‘I took a job as a driver with Faulkner. Good money and no questions asked. He tried to make a monkey out of me, but I ended up making him look pretty stupid.’ He released the policeman’s arm. ‘I’ve spent eight years of my life in prison, Masters, and I’m only thirty.’ He leaned back suddenly. ‘Okay, I’ve got the money. I earned it and now I’m keeping it.’

Masters shook his head slowly, and there was something like pity in his voice. ‘You’ll never get away with it. If Faulkner doesn’t catch up with you, I will.’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t count on that if I were you.’

The car slowed as they approached a junction, and as the lights changed it started to pick up speed again. With a sudden movement, Marlowe jerked open the offside door, jumped out into the road, and slammed it behind him. He threaded his way quickly through heavy traffic and dodged down a side street.

Once away from people he started to run. He knew he had only a few minutes’ start at the most. As he approached the end of the street he slowed and turned into another main road. A bus was pulling away from a stop in front of him, and he broke into a run and jumped on to the platform as it gathered speed.

As the bus moved away into the main traffic stream he slumped down into a corner seat. His chest was heaving and there was a slight film of sweat on his brow. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and smiled wryly. Things had moved fast, faster than he had anticipated, but he was still ahead of the game and that was all that counted.

He dropped off the bus at the next stop and went into a hardware store where he purchased a cheap screwdriver. Then he crossed the road and plunged into a maze of back-streets. He walked quickly, head lowered against the driving rain, and finally emerged into another main road where he caught a bus for the City.

A little more than an hour after giving Masters the slip he was in the vicinity of Paddington Station. It was raining harder than ever now and the streets were almost deserted. He crossed the road towards the station and turned into a narrow street that was lined on each side with tall, decaying Victorian houses.

About half-way along the street he paused and looked up at one of the houses. Above the door a grimy glass sign carried the legend ‘Imperial Hotel’ in faded letters. It was typical of a certain type of establishment to be found in the area. Places where a room was usually required for only an hour or two and never longer than a night. He mounted the steps slowly and passed inside.

He found himself in a narrow hall with several doors opening off it. Directly in front of him stairs that were covered with a threadbare carpet lifted to a gloomy landing. On his left a middle-aged woman was sitting in a cubicle reading a newspaper. She looked up and blinked red-rimmed watery eyes, and then carefully folded the paper. She spoke in a light, colourless voice. ‘Yes, sir. What can I do for you?’

Marlowe’s eyes moved quickly over the rows of keys that hung on the board behind her head. ‘I’d like a room,’ he said. ‘Just for three or four hours.’

The woman’s wet eyes flickered briefly over him. She produced a battered register and pen, and said, ‘Sign here, please.’

Marlowe took the pen and hastily scrawled ‘P. Simons – Bristol’. The woman examined the entry and said politely, ‘Any luggage, sir?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve left it at the station. I’m catching a train for Scotland this afternoon. Thought I could do with some sleep while I’m waiting.’

She nodded. ‘I see, sir. That will be fifteen shillings.’

He gave her a pound note and, when she turned to the board, said, ‘I’ll take number seven if it’s vacant.’ He laughed lightly. ‘My lucky number.’

The woman handed him the key. ‘It’s facing you at the top of the stairs, sir,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to give you a call?’

He shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’ll be all right.’

He mounted the stairs quickly and stood on the landing listening. The hotel was wrapped in quiet. After a moment he unlocked the door of room seven and went in.

Light filtered palely through one dirty window, giving a touch of colour to the faded counterpane that covered the double bed. The only other furniture was an ancient mahogany wardrobe and a plain wooden chair which stood on the far side of the bed. There was a door marked ‘Toilet’ in one corner.

Marlowe wrinkled his nose in disgust. The room smelt musty and damp. Somehow there was an odour of corruption over everything. He went to the window and wrestled with the catch. After a moment it gave, and he lifted the sash as far as it would go and leaned out into the rain.

The hotel backed on to a maze of railway lines and he could see Paddington Station over to the left. Beneath the window a pile of coke reared against the wall, and there was an engine getting up steam not far away. He lit a cigarette and leaned out into the rain. There was a hint of fog in the air and already things were becoming misty and ill-defined. He shivered suddenly as a gust of wind lifted rain in his face, but he did not shake because of the cold. He was afraid. For one brief moment his courage deserted him and he allowed the thought to creep into his mind that perhaps the long years had been wasted. Perhaps what he had come for was no longer here.

With a sudden convulsive movement he tossed his cigarette far out into the rain and crossed to the toilet door. A small rounded oval plate had ‘Toilet’ printed on it in black letters, and was secured by two screws. Marlowe took out his screwdriver and started to unscrew the plate with hands that trembled slightly.

When he had taken one screw completely out, the plate swivelled and the thing which had been concealed behind it fell to the floor. He dropped to one knee and picked it up with trembling fingers. It was a small metal key. He held it in the palm of his hand, staring at it, and a sudden exultation lifted inside him. It was there. After all this time it was there.

He heard nothing and yet some instinct told him that he was not alone. He was conscious of a slight draught on one cheek and knew that the door was open. He turned slowly. Faulkner was standing just inside the door. He held up what was obviously a duplicate key to the room and twirled it gaily round one finger. ‘I’ve got one too, old man, though nothing like as valuable as that one. What’s it open, a safe-deposit box? Very clever of you.’

He came into the room followed by Butcher and Harris, who closed the door and leaned against it. Marlowe slipped the key into his pocket and said, ‘How the hell did you manage to follow me?’

Faulkner sat down on the bed and fitted a cigarette into an elegant holder. ‘We didn’t need to, old man. You see, I knew something the police didn’t. The day you were arrested I had a bit of luck. A pal of Butcher’s happened to see you coming out of this place. I took the room for a couple of days, and we went over it with a fine-tooth comb. Couldn’t find a thing, but I always had a hunch about it. There had to be a connection.’

Marlowe took out a cigarette and lit it carefully. ‘I’m surprised at you, Faulkner,’ he said. ‘You must be slipping.’ He looked quickly towards the two men at the door. Butcher was watching his every move, hate blazing out of his eyes. Harris had produced a flick-knife with which he was quietly cleaning his fingernails.

Faulkner said, ‘Actually it was a damned ingenious hiding place, Hugh. But then you always were a cut above the average.’ He smiled and leaned forward. ‘Now come clean like a good chap and tell me where I can find the lock that key fits.’ His smile became even more charming. ‘I wouldn’t try anything silly if I were you. Butcher and Harris are praying for an excuse to cut you into pieces.’

A quick fierce anger surged in Marlowe, and he grabbed Faulkner by the tie and jerked him up from the bed. ‘You lousy bastard,’ he said coldly. ‘Do you think I’m scared of you and your third-rate toughs?’

Faulkner’s eyes started from his head as he began to choke, and then Marlowe was aware of a movement to his left. He released Faulkner and turned as Harris cut viciously at his face with the knife. He warded off the blow with his right arm and was conscious of pain as the knife ripped his sleeve. He caught the small man by his left wrist and with a sudden pull, jerked him across the room to crash against the wall.

As he turned, Butcher struck at him with a heavy rubber cosh, the blow catching him across the left shoulder and almost paralysing his arm. He chopped Butcher across the right forearm with the edge of his hand and the big man cried out in pain and dropped the cosh. Marlowe turned towards the door and Faulkner pushed out a foot and tripped him so that he fell heavily to the floor. Butcher moved in quickly, kicking at his ribs and face. Marlowe rolled away, avoiding most of the blows and scrambled up. Harris was back on his feet, shaking his head in a dazed fashion. He stumbled across the room and stood beside Butcher. For a moment there was a brief pause as the four men stood looking at each other and then Faulkner pulled an automatic out of his inside breast pocket.

Marlowe moved backwards until he faced them from the other side of the bed, the open window behind him. Faulkner appeared to be having difficulty with his voice. He choked several times before he managed to say, ‘I’ll take that key, Hugh, and you’ll tell me where the money is. I don’t want to use this, but I will if I have to.’

‘I’ll see you in hell first,’ Marlowe said.

Faulkner shrugged and covered him carefully with the automatic. ‘Go and get the key,’ he told Butcher.

The big man started forward. Marlowe waited until he was almost on him and then he grabbed the wooden chair and tossed it straight at Faulkner. In the same moment he turned and vaulted through the open window.

He landed knee-deep in the pile of coke and lost his balance, rolling over and sliding to the bottom. He got to his feet and looked up. Butcher and Faulkner were at the window. For a moment they stared down at him and then they were pulled aside and Harris scrambled on to the windowsill. As he jumped, Marlowe turned and ran across the tracks towards some railway coaches which were standing in a nearby siding.

The fog was thickening rapidly now and visibility was poor. He stumbled across the tracks into the shelter of the coaches and paused for a moment to look back. Harris was running well and the blade of his knife gleamed dully in the rain. Marlowe started to run again. There was a terrible pain in his side where Butcher had kicked him and blood was dripping from his left arm.

As he emerged from the shelter of the coaches he saw a goods train moving slowly along a nearby track, gathering speed as it went. He lurched towards it and ran alongside, pulling at one of the sliding doors until it opened. He grabbed at the iron rail and hauled himself up.

As he leaned against the door Harris appeared, running strongly, his face white with effort. As he grabbed for the handrail, Marlowe summoned up his last reserve of strength and kicked him in the chest with all his force. The small man disappeared and then the train moved forward rapidly, clattering over the points as it travelled away from London towards the North.

For a moment longer Marlowe leaned in the opening and then he pushed the sliding door shut and slid gently down on to the straw-littered floor.

2

He lay face downwards in the straw for a long time, chest heaving as his tortured lungs fought for air. After a while he pushed himself up and sat with his back against a packing case.

The wagon was old and battered with many gaps in its slatted sides through which the light filtered. Gradually his breathing became easier and he stood up and removed his raincoat and jacket. The slash in his arm was less serious than he had imagined. A superficial cut, three or four inches long, where the tip of the knife had sliced through his sleeve. He took out his handkerchief and tied it around the wound, knotting it with his teeth.

He shivered and pulled on his jacket as wind whistled between the slats carrying a faint spray of cold rain. As he buttoned his raincoat he examined the packing cases that stood about him and was amused to find they were addressed to a firm in Birmingham. So the wheel had come full circle? He had escaped from Birmingham in a goods train five years before. Now he was on his way back again. Masters would have been amused.

He sat down with his back against a packing case by the door and wondered what Masters was doing now. Probably making sure that every copper in London had his description. Faulkner would be doing exactly the same thing, in his own way. Marlowe frowned and fumbled for a cigarette. London was out of the question for the moment. With every crook in town on the watch for him, he wouldn’t last half an hour.

He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and considered the position. Perhaps things had worked out the best after all. A week or two in the Midlands or the North to let things cool off and then he could return quietly and collect what he had left in the safe deposit of the firm near Bond Street.

His fingers fastened over the key in his jacket pocket and he took it out and examined it. Twenty thousand pounds. He smiled suddenly. He had waited for five years. He could afford to wait for another week or two. He replaced the key in his pocket, pulled his cap down over his eyes, and went to sleep.

He came awake slowly and lay in the straw for a moment trying to decide where he was. After a while he remembered and struggled to his feet. He was cold and there was a dull, aching pain in his side where Butcher had kicked him. The train was moving fast, rocking slightly on the curves, and when he pulled the door open a gust of wind dashed violently into his face.

A curtain of fog shrouded the fields, cutting visibility down to thirty or forty yards. The cold air made him feel better and he sat down again, leaving the door open, and considered his next move.

Birmingham was out. There was always the chance that Faulkner might have discovered the train’s destination. There could easily be a reception committee waiting. Faulkner had friends everywhere. It would be best to leave the train at some small town farther along the line. The sort of place that had a name no one had ever heard of.

He emptied his pockets and checked on his available assets. There was an insurance card, his driving licence which he had renewed each year he had been in prison, and fifteen shillings in silver. He still had ten cigarettes left in the packet he had bought in the snack bar. He smiled ruefully and decided it was a good job he had the licence. With luck he might be able to get some sort of a driving job. Something that would keep him going until he was ready to return to London.

The train began to slow down and he got up quickly and closed the door leaving a narrow gap through which he could stare out into the fog. A signal box loomed out of the gloom and a moment later, the train moved past a small station platform. Marlowe just had time to make out the name Litton before the station was swallowed up by the fog.

He shrugged and a half-smile appeared on his face. This place sounded as good as any. He pushed open the door and as the train slowed even more, he dropped down into the ditch at the side of the track. Before him there was a thorn hedge. He moved along it for a few yards until he found a suitable gap through which he forced his way into a quiet road beyond. The rain was hammering down through the fog unmercifully and he pulled up his coat collar and began to walk briskly along the road.

When he came to the station he paused and examined the railway map that hung on the wall in a glass case. He had little difficulty in finding Litton. It was on the main line, about eighty miles from Birmingham. The nearest place of any size was a town called Barford, twelve or fifteen miles away.

The hands of the clock above the station entrance pointed to three and he frowned and started down the hill towards the village, dimly seen through the fog. He had obviously slept on the train for longer than he had imagined.

The main street seemed to be deserted and the fog was much thicker than it had been on the hill. He saw no one as he walked along the wet pavement. When he paused for a moment outside a draper’s shop his reflection stared out at him from a mirror in the back of the window. With his cap pulled down over his eyes and his great shoulders straining out of the sodden raincoat, he presented a formidable and menacing figure.

He lifted his left hand to wipe away the rain from his face and cursed softly. Blood was trickling down his arm, soaking the sleeve of his raincoat. He thrust his hand deep into his pocket and hurried on. He had to find somewhere quiet where he could fix that slash before he ran into anyone.

The street seemed to be endless. He had been walking for a good ten minutes before he came to a low stone wall topped by spiked railings. A little farther along there was an open iron gate and a sign which read Church of the Immaculate Heart, with the times of Mass and Confession in faded gold letters beneath it.

He walked along the flagged path and mounted the four or five steps that led to the porch. For a moment he hesitated and then he pulled off his cap and went inside.

It was warm in there and very quiet. For a little while he stood listening intently and then he slumped down in a pew at the back of the church. He looked down towards the winking candles and the altar and suddenly it seemed to grow darker and he leaned forward and rested his head against a stone pillar. He was more tired than he had been in a long time.

After a while he felt better and stood up to remove his raincoat and jacket. The handkerchief had slipped down his arm exposing the wound and blood oozed sluggishly through the torn sleeve of his shirt. As he started to fumble with the knotted handkerchief there was a slight movement at his side. A voice said quietly, ‘Are you all right? Can I help you?’

He swung round with a stifled exclamation. A young woman was standing beside him. She was wearing a man’s raincoat that was too big for her and a scarf covered her head. ‘How the hell did you get there?’ Marlowe demanded.

She smiled slightly and sat down beside him. ‘I was sitting in the corner. You didn’t notice me.’

‘I didn’t think anyone would be in church in the middle of the afternoon,’ he said. ‘I came in out of the rain to fix my arm. The bandage has slipped.’

She lifted his arm and said calmly, ‘That looks pretty nasty. You need a doctor.’

He jerked away from her and started to untie the handkerchief with his right hand. ‘It’s only a bad cut,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t even need stitching.’

She reached over and gently unfastened the knot. She folded the handkerchief into a strip and bound it tightly about the wound. As she tied it she said, ‘This won’t last for long. You need a proper bandage.’

‘It’ll be all right,’ Marlowe said. He stood up and pulled on his coat. He wanted to get away before she started asking too many questions.

As he belted his raincoat she said, ‘How did you do it?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve been hitch-hiking from London. Going to Birmingham to look for work. I ripped myself open on a steel spike when I was climbing down from a lorry.’

He started to walk away and she followed at his heels. At the door, she kneeled and crossed herself and then she followed him out into the porch.

‘Well, I’d better be off,’ Marlowe said.

She looked out into the driving rain and the fog and said, with a slight smile, ‘You won’t stand much chance of a lift in this.’

He nodded and said smoothly, ‘If I can’t, I’ll catch a bus to Barford. I’ll be all right.’

‘But there isn’t a bus until five,’ she said. ‘It’s a limited service on this road.’ She appeared to hesitate and then went on, ‘You can come home with me if you like. I’ll bandage that cut for you properly. You’ve plenty of time to spare before the bus goes.’

Marlowe shook his head and moved towards the top step. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

Her mouth trembled and there was suppressed laughter in her voice as she replied, ‘My father should be home by now. It will be all quite proper.’

An involuntary smile came to Marlowe’s face and he turned towards her. For the first time he realized that she had a slight foreign intonation to her speech and an oddly old-fashioned turn of phrase. Suddenly and for some completely inexplicable reason, he felt completely at home with her. He grinned and took out his cigarettes. ‘You’re not English, are you?’

She smiled back at him, at the same time refusing a cigarette with a slight gesture of one hand. ‘No, Portuguese. How did you know? I rather prided myself on my accent.’

He hastened to reassure her. ‘It isn’t so much your accent. For one thing, you don’t look English.’

Her smile widened. ‘I don’t know how you intended that, but I shall take it as a compliment. My name is Maria Magellan.’

She held out her hand. He hesitated for a moment and then took it in his. ‘Hugh Marlowe.’

‘So! Now we know each other and it is all very respectable,’ she said briskly. ‘Shall we go?’

He paused for only a moment before following her down the steps. As she passed through the gate in front of him he noticed that she was small, with the ripe figure peculiar to southern women and hips that were too large by English standards.

They walked along the pavement, side by side, and he glanced covertly at her. Her face was smoothly rounded with a flawless cream complexion. The eyebrows and the hair that escaped from under the scarf were coal black and her red lips had an extra fullness that suggested sensuality.

She turned her head unexpectedly at one point and caught him looking at her. She smiled. ‘You’re a pretty big man, Mr Marlowe. How tall are you?’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Around six-three, I think.’

She nodded, her eyes travelling over his massive frame. ‘What kind of work are you looking for?’

He shrugged. ‘Anything I can get, but driving is what I do best.’

There was a gleam of interest in her eyes. ‘What kind of driving?’

‘Any kind,’ he said. ‘Anything on wheels. I’ve driven the lot, from light vans to tank-transporters.’

‘So! You were in the Army?’ she said and her interest seemed to become even more pronounced.

Marlowe flicked his cigarette into the rain-filled gutter. ‘Yes, I think you could say I was in the Army,’ he said and there was a deadness in his voice.

She seemed to sense the change of mood and lapsed into silence. Marlowe walked moodily along beside her trying to think of something to say, but it was not necessary. They turned into a narrow lane and came to a five-barred gate which was standing open. She paused and said, ‘Here we are.’

A gravel drive disappeared into the fog in front of them and Marlowe could make out the dim shape of a house. ‘It looks like a pretty big place,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘It used to be a farmhouse. Now there’s just a few acres of land. We run it as a market garden and fruit farm.’

He looked up into the rain. ‘This kind of weather won’t be doing you much good.’

She laughed. ‘We haven’t done too badly. We got nearly all the apples in last week and most of our other produce is under glass.’

A gust of wind lifted across the farmyard, rolling the fog in front of it, and exposed the house. It was an old, grey stone building, firmly rooted into the ground and weathered by the years. On one side of the yard there were several outbuildings and on the other, a large, red-roofed barn.

The front door was protected by an old-fashioned glass porch and outside it a small yellow van was parked. inter-allied trading corporation – barford, was printed on its side in neat black letters. Maria Magellan paused abruptly and there was something like fear on her face. She darted forward and entered the house.

Marlowe followed more slowly. He ducked slightly under the low lintel of the door and found himself in a wide, stone-flagged hall. The girl was standing outside a door on the left through which angry voices could be heard. She flung the door open and entered the room and Marlowe waited in the hall, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and watched.

Inside the room two men faced each other across a table. One of them was old with grizzled hair and a white moustache that stood out clearly against swarthy skin that was the colour of tanned leather.

The other was a much younger man, powerfully built with good shoulders. His face was twisted menacingly as he said, ‘Listen you old fool. Either you come in with us or you go out of business. That’s Mr O’Connor’s last word.’

The old man’s eyes darted fire and he slammed a hand hard against the table. His English was good but with a heavy accent and his voice was trembling with rage. ‘Listen, Kennedy. You tell O’Connor this from me. Before he puts me out of business I put a knife into him. On my life I promise it.’

Kennedy laughed contemptuously. ‘You bloody old fool,’ he said. ‘Mr O’Connor can stamp you into the dirt any time he wants. You’re small stuff, Magellan.’

The old man gave a roar of anger and moved fast around the table. He swung hard with his right fist, but the years were against him. Kennedy blocked the punch with ease. He grabbed the old man by the shirt and started to beat him across the face with the flat of his hand. The girl screamed and ran forward, tearing at Kennedy with her fingers. He pushed her away with such force that she staggered across the room and lost her balance.

A cold rage flared in Marlowe and he moved forward into the room. Kennedy raised his hand to strike the old man again and Marlowe grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him round so that they faced each other. ‘How about trying me?’ he said. ‘I’m a bit nearer your size.’

Kennedy opened his mouth to speak and Marlowe smashed a fist into it. The tremendous force of the blow hurled Kennedy across the table. He gave a terrible groan and pulled himself up from the floor. Marlowe moved quickly around the table and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. ‘You bastard!’ he said. ‘You dirty, lousy bastard.’

And then a mist came before his eyes and it wasn’t Kennedy’s face that he saw before him. It was another face. One that he hated with all his being and he began to beat Kennedy methodically, backwards and forwards across the face, with his right hand.

The girl screamed again, high and clear, ‘No, Marlowe! No – you’ll kill him!’

She was tugging at his arm, pleading frantically with him, and Marlowe stopped. He stood for a moment staring stupidly at Kennedy, fist raised, and then he gently pushed him back against the table.

He was trembling slightly and there was still that slight haze before his eyes, almost as if some of the fog had got into the room. He clenched his fists to try and steady the trembling and noticed that blood was trickling down his left sleeve again.

The girl released her hold on him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I had to stop you. You would have killed him.’

Marlowe nodded slowly and passed a hand across his face. ‘You did right. Sometimes I don’t know when to stop and this rat isn’t worth hanging for.’

He moved suddenly and grabbing Kennedy by the collar, propelled him roughly out of the room and into the hall. He pushed him through the porch and flung him against the van. ‘If you’ve got any sense you’ll get out of here while you’ve got a whole skin,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you just five minutes to gather your wits.’

Kennedy was already fumbling for the handle of the van door as Marlowe turned and went back into the house.

3

When he went into the room there was no sign of Maria, but her father was busy at the sideboard with a bottle and a couple of glasses. His face split into a wide grin and he walked quickly across and handed Marlowe a glass. ‘Brandy – the best in the house. I feel like a young man again.’

Marlowe swallowed the brandy gratefully and nodded towards the window as the engine of the van roared into life. ‘That’s the last you’ll see of him.’

The old man shrugged and an ugly look came into his eyes. ‘Who knows? Next time I’ll be prepared. I’ll stick a knife into his belly and argue afterwards.’

Maria came into the room, a basin of hot water in one hand and bandages and a towel in the other. She still looked white and shaken, but she managed a smile as she set the bowl down on the table. ‘I’ll have a look at that arm now,’ she said.

Marlowe removed his raincoat and jacket and she gently sponged away congealed blood and pursed her lips. ‘It doesn’t look too good.’ She shook her head and turned to her father. ‘What do you think, Papa?’

Papa Magellan looked carefully at the wound and a sudden light flickered in his eyes. ‘Pretty nasty. How did you say you got it, boy?’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘Ripped it on a spike getting off a truck. I’ve been hitching my way from London.’

The old man nodded. ‘A spike, eh?’ A light smile touched his mouth. ‘I don’t think we need bother the doctor, Maria. Clean it up and bandage it well. It’ll be fine inside a week.’

Maria still looked dubious and Marlowe said, ‘He’s right. You women make a fuss about every little scratch.’ He laughed and fished for a cigarette with his right hand. ‘I walked a hundred and fifty miles in Korea with a bullet in my thigh. I had to. There was no one available to take it out.’

She scowled and quick fury danced in her eyes. ‘All right. We don’t get the doctor. Have it your own way. I hope your arm poisons and falls off.’

He chuckled and she bent her head and went to work. Papa Magellan said, ‘You were in Korea?’ Marlowe nodded and the old man went over to the sideboard and came back with a framed photo. ‘My son, Pedro,’ he said.

The boy smiled stiffly out of the photo, proud and self-conscious of the new uniform. It was the sort of picture every recruit has taken during his first few weeks of basic training. ‘He looks like a good boy,’ Marlowe remarked in a non-committal voice.

Papa Magellan nodded vigorously. ‘He was a fine boy. He was going to go to Agricultural College. Always wanted to be a farmer.’ The old man sighed heavily. ‘He was killed in a patrol action near the Imjin River in 1953.’

Marlowe examined the photo again and wondered if Pedro Magellan had been smiling like that when the bullets smashed into him. But it was no use thinking about that because men in war died in so many different ways. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always scared, with fear biting into their faces.

He grunted and handed back the photograph. ‘That was a little after my time. I was captured in the early days when the Chinese took a hand.’

Maria looked up quickly. ‘How long were you a prisoner?’

‘About three years,’ Marlowe told her.

The old man whistled softly. ‘Holy Mother, that’s a long time. You must have had it rough. I hear those Chinese camps were pretty tough.’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t in a camp. They put me to work in a coal mine in Manchuria.’

Magellan’s eyes narrowed and all humour left his face. ‘I’ve heard a little about those places also.’ There was a short silence and then he grinned and clapped Marlowe on the shoulder. ‘Still, all this is in the past. Maybe it’s a good thing for a man, like going through fire. A sort of purification.’

Marlowe laughed harshly. ‘That sort of purification I can do without.’

As Maria pressed plaster over the loose ends of the bandage she said quietly, ‘Papa has had a little of that kind of fire in his time. He was in the International Brigade in Spain. The Fascists held him in prison for two years.’

The old man shrugged expressively and raised a hand in protest. ‘Why speak of these things? They are dead. Ancient history. We are living in the present. Life is often unpleasant and always unfair. A wise man puts it all down to experience and does the best he can.’

He stood, hands in pockets, smiling at them and Maria said, ‘There, it is finished.’

Marlowe stood up and began to turn down the tattered remnants of his shirt sleeve. ‘I’d better be going,’ he said. ‘What time did you say that bus left?’

A frown replaced the smile on Magellan’s face. ‘Going? Where are you going?’

‘Birmingham,’ Marlowe told him. ‘I’m hoping to get a job there.’

‘So you go to Birmingham tomorrow,’ the old man said. ‘Tonight you stay here. In such weather to refuse shelter to a dog would be a crime. What kind of a man do you think I am? You appear from the fog, save me from a beating, and then expect me to let you disappear just like that?’ He snorted. ‘Maria, run a hot bath for him and I will see if I can find a clean shirt.’

Marlowe hesitated. Every instinct told him to go. To leave now before he became further involved with these people; and he looked at Maria. She smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s no use, Mr Marlowe. When Papa decides on something the only thing to do is agree. It saves time in the long run.’

He looked out of the window at the gloom outside and thought about that bath and a meal and made his decision. ‘I give in,’ he said. ‘Unconditional surrender.’

She smiled and went out of the room. The old man produced a briar pipe and filled it from a worn leather pouch. ‘Maria told me a little about you when you were outside with Kennedy,’ he said. ‘She tells me you’re a truck driver.’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘I have been.’

Magellan puffed patiently at his pipe until it was drawing properly. ‘That slash on your arm,’ he said. ‘How did you say you got it?’

‘From a broken hook in the tailboard of a truck,’ Marlowe told him. ‘Why?’

The old man shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said carefully, ‘except that I had a very active youth and I know a knife wound when I see one.’

Marlowe stiffened, anger moving inside him. He clenched a fist and took a step forward and the old man produced a battered silver cigarette case and flicked it open. ‘Have a cigarette, son,’ he said calmly. ‘They soothe the nerves.’

Marlowe sighed deeply and unclenched his fist. ‘Your eyes are too good, Papa. One of these days they’re going to get you into trouble.’

The old man shrugged. ‘I’ve been in trouble before.’ He held out a match in cupped hands. ‘How about you, son?’

Marlowe looked into the wise, humorous face and liked what he saw. ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle, Papa.’

The old man’s eyes roved briefly over his massive frame. ‘I can imagine. It would take a good man to put you down, but there’s another kind of trouble that isn’t so easy to handle.’

Marlowe raised an eyebrow. ‘The law?’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, Papa. They won’t come knocking at your door tonight.’ He raised his arm. ‘I can explain this. I was asleep in the back of a truck. Woke up to find some bloke going through my pockets. He pulled a knife and ripped my sleeve. I smacked his jaw and dropped off the truck. That’s how I arrived here.’

Magellan threw back his head and laughed. ‘Heh, I bet that fella doesn’t wake up till the truck gets to Newcastle.’

Marlowe sat down in a chair and laughed with him. He felt easier now and safer. ‘It’s a good job we were near here,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even know Litton was on the map.’

Magellan nodded. ‘It’s a quiet little place. Only seven or eight hundred people live around here.’

Marlowe grinned. ‘Seems to me it’s getting pretty lively for a quiet little place. What about the character I tossed out on his ear?’

The old man frowned. ‘Kennedy? He was working for me until a few days ago as a driver. Now he’s with Inter-Allied Trading.’

Marlowe nodded. ‘I noticed the fancy yellow van when I came in. Who’s this bloke O’Connor? The big boss?’

The old man snorted and fire glinted in his eyes. ‘He likes to think he is, but I remember him when he was small. Very small. He had an old truck and did general haulage work. The war was the making of him. He wasn’t too fussy about what he carried and always seemed to be able to get plenty of petrol when other people couldn’t. Now he has twenty or thirty trucks.’

‘And doesn’t like competition,’ Marlowe said. ‘What’s he trying to do? Put you out of business?’

‘He offered to buy me out, but I told him I wasn’t interested. The smallholding on its own isn’t enough to give us a good living. I have three Bedford trucks as well. Once a month we deliver coal round the village and the outlying farms. The rest of the time we do general haulage work. I’ve formed a little co-operative between seven or eight market gardeners near here. They’re all in a pretty small way. Together we can make it pay by using my trucks for transportation and selling in bulk.’

Marlowe was beginning to get interested. ‘Even so, there can’t be a fortune in that, Papa,’ he said. ‘What’s O’Connor after?’

The old man hastened to explain. ‘It isn’t the haulage work he’s interested in. It’s the produce itself. You see about eighteen months ago he took over a large fruit-and-vegetable wholesalers in Barford Market. Since then he’s bought out another and purchased a controlling interest in two more. Now he virtually controls prices. If you want to sell, you sell through him.’

Marlowe whistled softly. ‘Very neat, and legal too. What’s he got against you?’

The old man shrugged. ‘He doesn’t like my little cooperative. He prefers to deal with all the small men individually. That way he can get the stuff at rock-bottom prices and re-sell in Birmingham and other large cities at an enormous profit.’

‘Hasn’t anybody tried to stand up to him?’ Marlowe asked.

Magellan nodded. ‘Naturally, but O’Connor is a powerful man and Barford is a very small town. He can exert influence in many ways. Besides his more subtle methods there are others. A gang of young hooligans started a fight the other day in the crowded market and a stall was wrecked in the process. Of course, O’Connor knew nothing about it, but the stallholder now toes the line.’

‘What about Kennedy?’ Marlowe said. ‘Where does he fit in?’

The old man’s face darkened. ‘He worked for me for nearly six months. I never liked him, but good drivers are scarce in a place like this. One day last week he told me he was leaving. I offered him a little more money if he would stay, but he laughed in my face. Said he could double it working for O’Connor.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I think O’Connor is beginning to think he’s God in these parts. It’s difficult to know what to do.’

‘I suppose it hasn’t occurred to anybody to kick his bloody teeth in,’ Marlowe said.

Papa Magellan smiled softly. ‘Oh, yes, my friend. Even that has passed through my mind, but O’Connor’s business has many ramifications these days. He has imported some peculiar individuals to work for him. Anything but countrybred.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ Marlowe said, ‘but even that kind can be handled.’ He stood up and stretched, and walked a few paces across the room. ‘How are you going to fight him?’

Magellan smiled. ‘I’ve already started. My other driver is a young fellow called Bill Johnson, who lives in the village. O’Connor offered him a good job at better money. Bill told him to go to hell. I’ve sent him into Barford today with a truck-load of fruit and vegetables. He’s making the rounds of all the retail shops, offering to sell to them direct.’

‘And you think that will work?’

Magellan shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. Even O’Connor can’t control everybody. He certainly can’t intimidate every shopkeeper in Barford and district.’

Marlowe shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know, Papa. It’s a little too simple.’

The old man jumped up impatiently. ‘It’s got to work. He isn’t God. He can’t control everybody.’

‘He can have a damn good try,’ Marlowe said.

For a moment it seemed as if Magellan was going to explode with anger. He glared, eyes flashing, and then turned abruptly and went over to the fireplace. He stood looking down into the flames, shoulders heaving with suppressed passion, and Marlowe helped himself to another brandy.

After a while the old man spoke without turning round. ‘It’s a funny world. After the Spanish war when I returned home to Portugal, I found I was an embarrassment to the government. Franco was able to touch me even there. So I came to England. Now, after all these years, I find he can still touch me. Franco – O’Connor. There isn’t any difference. It’s the same pattern.’

‘You’re learning, Papa,’ Marlowe said. ‘It’s the same problem, and the solution is always the same. You’ve got to fight. If he uses force, use more force. If he starts playing it dirty, then you’ve got to play it dirtier.’

‘But that’s horrible. We aren’t living in a jungle.’ Maria had come quietly back into the room and spoke from just inside the door.

Marlowe raised his glass to her and grinned cynically. ‘It’s life. You either survive or go under.’

Papa Magellan had turned to face them. For a moment he looked searchingly at Marlowe, and then he said, ‘That job you’re looking for. Why go to Birmingham? You can have one right here working in Kennedy’s place.’

Marlowe swallowed the rest of his brandy and considered the idea. It was just what he was looking for. A job in a quiet country town where nobody knew him. He could lie low for a few weeks, and then return to London to pick up the money when all the fuss had died down. After that, Ireland. There were ways and means if you knew the right people.

The whole idea sounded very attractive, but there was the added complication of the trouble with O’Connor. If that got too messy the police would step in. Contact with the police was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

He put down his glass carefully. ‘I don’t know, Papa. I’d have to think it over.’

‘What’s the matter? Are you afraid?’ Maria said bitingly.

Her father waved a hand at her impatiently. ‘You could stay here, son. You could have Pedro’s old room.’

For several moments there was a silence while they waited for him to answer. The old man was trembling with eagerness, but the girl seemed quiet and withdrawn. Marlowe looked at her steadily for several moments, but she gave no sign of what she hoped his decision would be. As he looked at her she blushed and frowned slightly, and he knew that she didn’t like him.

He half smiled and turned back to the old man. ‘Sorry, Papa. I’m all for a quiet life, and it sounds to me as if you’re in for quite a party in the near future.’

Magellan’s face crumpled in disappointment and his shoulders sagged. All at once he was an old man again. A very old man. ‘Sure, I understand, son,’ he said. ‘It’s a lot to ask a man.’

Maria moved over beside him quickly and slipped a hand round his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, Papa. We’ll manage.’ She smiled proudly at Marlowe. ‘My father had no right to ask you, Mr Marlowe. This is our quarrel. We can look after ourselves.’

Marlowe forced a smile to hide the quick fury that moved inside him. He was seething with anger, and mostly it was against himself. For the first time in years he felt ashamed. ‘We can look after ourselves,’ she said. An old man, a young girl. He wondered just how long they would last when O’Connor’s tough boys moved in and really cracked down on them.

He reached for his coat and kept his face steady. Whatever happened he wasn’t going to get involved. All he had to do was keep his nose clean and lie low for a couple of weeks and there was a fortune waiting for him. A man would be a fool to risk everything after five years of blood and sweat. And for what? For an old man and a girl he’d known for precisely an hour.

He buttoned his coat and said, ‘Maybe I’d better be leaving after all.’

Before Magellan could reply there was the sound of a truck turning into the yard outside. It halted at the door and the engine died. ‘It must be Bill,’ Maria said, and there was excitement in her voice. ‘I wonder if he’s had any luck?’

The outside door rattled and steps dragged along the corridor. A figure appeared in the doorway and stood there, swaying slightly. He was a young man of medium size wearing a leather jacket and corduroy cap. His fleshy, good-natured face was drawn and white with pain. One of his eyes was disfigured by a livid bruise, and his mouth was badly swollen, with blood caking a nasty gash in one cheek.

‘Bill!’ Maria said in a horrified voice. ‘What is it? What have they done to you?’

Johnson moved forward unsteadily and sank down into a chair while Papa Magellan quickly poured brandy into a glass and handed it to him. Marlowe stood in the background quietly watching.

‘Who beat you up, boy?’ Magellan demanded grimly. ‘O’Connor’s men?’

Johnson swallowed his brandy and gulped. He appeared to find difficulty in speaking. Finally he said, ‘Yes, it was that big chap, Blackie Monaghan. I went round the shops like you told me, and it worked fine. I got rid of all the stuff for cash.’ He pulled a bundle of banknotes out of his jacket pocket and tossed them on to the table. ‘One or two people told me they weren’t interested. I think someone must have tipped O’Connor off.’

He paused again and closed his eyes as if he was on the point of passing out. Marlowe had been watching him closely. A cynical grin curled the corners of his mouth. Johnson had been slapped around a little, but nothing like as badly as he was trying to make out. He was over-dramatizing the whole thing, and there had to be a reason.

‘Go on, son,’ Magellan said sympathetically. ‘Tell us what happened then.’

‘I was having a cup of tea in the transport café just this side of Barford on the Birmingham road. Monaghan came in with a couple of young toughs that hang around with him. They always turn up at the Plaza on Saturday nights after the pubs close, causing trouble. Monaghan followed me outside and picked a fight. Said I’d been messing around with his girl at the dance last Saturday night.’

‘Is that true?’ Magellan asked.

Johnson shook his head. ‘I didn’t even know what he was talking about. I tried to argue with him, but he knocked me down. One of his friends kicked me in the face, but Monagan stopped him and said I’d had enough. He told me I’d stay out of Barford if I knew what was good for me.’

Magellan shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why this?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand?’

Marlowe laughed shortly. ‘It’s the old tactics, Papa. Officially this has nothing to do with O’Connor’s feud with you. It’s just a coincidence that Johnson works for you.’

Maria’s face was white with anger. ‘We must go to the police,’ she said. ‘He can’t get away with this.’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘Why not? If Johnson went to the police what good would it do? It wouldn’t touch O’Connor. Monaghan would be fined a couple of pounds for common assault and that would be that.’

‘I don’t want to go to the police,’ Johnson interrupted, and there was alarm in his voice.

Papa Magellan frowned. ‘Why not, son? You could have the satisfaction of seeing Monaghan in court, at least.’

Johnson got up. All at once he seemed capable of standing without swaying. His voice was a little shrill as he said, ‘I don’t want any more trouble. I don’t want to get mixed up in this any further. I didn’t know it was going to be like this.’ His face was stained with fear, and there was a crack in his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Magellan. You’ve been pretty good to me, but I’ll have to look for another job.’ He stood there, twisting the cap between his hands. ‘I won’t be in tomorrow.’

There was a moment of shocked silence, and Maria turned away, stifling a sob. Magellan reached out blindly for support, his whole body sagging so that he looked on the point of collapse.

Marlowe found himself reaching for the old man, supporting him with his strong arms, easing him down into a chair. ‘Don’t worry, Papa,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be fine.’

He straightened up and looked at Johnson. Shame was beginning to replace the look of fear on the other’s face, and then that terrible, uncontrollable anger that he was powerless to control, lifted inside Marlowe. He surged forward and grabbed Johnson by the throat and shook him like a rat. ‘You dirty, yellow little swine,’ he raged. ‘I’ll give you something you really will remember.’

He flung Johnson out into the hall with all his force. The man lost his balance and fell to the floor. As Marlowe advanced towards him he scrambled to his feet gibbering with fear, and then Maria grabbed at Marlowe’s hair, wrenching back his head. She slapped him across the face and screamed, ‘Stop it! Hasn’t there been enough of this for one day?’

As Marlowe raised an arm to brush her away, Papa Magellan ducked through the door, suddenly active, and clutching Johnson by the shoulder pushed him towards the outside door. ‘Go on, get out of here for God’s sake!’ he said. Johnson threw one terrified look over his shoulder and scrambled through the door and out into the fog.

There was quiet except for Marlowe’s heavy breathing. Maria was not crying this time. Her face was flushed and her eyes were flashing. ‘What is wrong with you?’ she demanded fiercely. ‘Do you want to hang some day? Can’t you control yourself? Is your answer to everything violence?’

Marlowe stirred and looked down at her. He swallowed hard and said, ‘When I was a kid my father wanted me to be a doctor. He was a wages clerk, so I had to be a doctor. I didn’t want to be one, but that didn’t make any difference. He beat me all the way through school until one day, when I was seventeen, I discovered I was stronger than he was. I slammed him on the jaw and left home.’

He fumbled for a cigarette with shaking hands and continued. ‘There was a Chinese officer in charge of the prisoners at that coal mine they sent me to in Manchuria. Li, they called him. A little name for a little man. He had a complex about his size, so he didn’t like me because I was big. I used to work in a low level, up to my knees in freezing water, for twelve hours a day. Sometimes if he didn’t think I’d worked hard enough, he used to leave me in there all night when the others were brought up. I still get dreams about that. He used to turn up in the middle of the night and call down the shaft to me, his voice echoing along the passage. Other times he’d have me strung up and he’d beat me with a pick handle.’

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