by Mary Stewart
As briefly and as quickly as I could I told him everything that had happened, even the business of the jewelled brooch and the portrait. ‘And I think he’ll have gone back that way,’ I finished, ‘to my room. There was still the brooch, and the stones that were spilt on the floor. He said all that about their not being valuable, but I think he was only talking stupidly to put me off. “Dreams for the damned”, he said he was selling, “you can always sell dreams”. He was still determined to get the saddle, and I don’t see why, but it means he’s bound to see if I was telling the truth about putting it in the corn bin, so whichever way he comes down, he’ll be making for the stable, and he may have seen you arrive – and if not, he’ll have heard you – and now he’ll be waiting for you to go in, before he slips out and away. Lewis, if you don’t go in the main door, he’ll wonder why; and if you do, and he sees you, he’ll recognize you, and then —’
But he hardly seemed to be listening. He was still holding me, but half absently, with his head bent, thinking.
‘“Dreams for the damned”,’ he quoted softly. ‘I begin to see . . . And he still wants the saddle, does he?’ He lifted his head, and his whisper sounded jubilant. ‘By God, I think you have broken it, at that, bust it wide open! No, I’ll tell you later. Where are the stables? Next door?’
‘Yes, that way. That’s the connecting door, beside the carriage. And there’s a door off the courtyard.’
‘Right. He won’t have gone back to your room: I think you can take it he was telling the truth, and the “jewels” really are only stage props. Why bother to lie, and throw them down like that, when he’d already had to give himself away to you, and was probably going to get rid of you anyway? No, the only reason he was interested in the brooch was because it meant you’d been meddling with the saddle . . . And he still wants that saddle, which means he’ll be making for the stable. Do you reckon he’s had time to get down off the roof, pick up the saddle, and get out over the bridge before I arrived?’
I tried to think back. ‘It’s hard to judge, it seemed like years, but I suppose it’s only been a few minutes . . . No. No, I’m sure he hasn’t.’
‘Then either he’s still above the gate waiting to come down, or he’s already in the stable waiting for me to go. In either case he’ll have seen or heard the car arrive. Stay there half a minute, while I think.’
He drifted from my side like a shadow, then from the car came clearly audible movements, the creak of upholstery, a grunt, a sharp revving of the engine before he killed it, the sound of his feet on the cobbled floor, and finally the slam of the car door.
Then he was beside me again, with his case in one hand. His free arm went round me, pulling me close. I could feel the calm, unhurried beat of his heart, and his untroubled breathing stirred my hair. As my own body relaxed into this unruffled calm I reflected that it was something to be able to hand over to a professional. It was something that that sleek animal in black leather should find he had tangled, not with a stray English tourist and her bewildered husband, but with Our Man (Temporary) in Vienna.
‘I’ll have to go in by the front door,’ said Lewis. ‘He’ll be waiting for that. I’ll see he doesn’t recognize me if he’s watching, and he won’t know the car. I’ve brought a Merc this time. Then I’ll come straight back here, by that door of yours. The lay-out’s simple, I’ll find it in two minutes. Will you let me leave you here for two minutes?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s my girl. Now, just on the off-chance he’s inside, you’d better not go back in there. Stay out here. Not in the car . . . what about that old carriage? Yes, the door’s open. In you go, then, and keep still. I’ll be back.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘As far as you’re concerned, I suspect he’ll cut his losses, and he won’t know how fast to get out of it. But I also think he’ll get in touch with his bosses straight away, and when he does I want to be there. So I think we’ll let him take what he wants.’
‘You mean you’re just going to let him go? Now? Tonight? Not do anything to him?’
His hand touched my bruised cheek very gently. He said: ‘When I do lay hands on him, I promise you he’ll never walk a high wire again, or anything else for that matter. But this is a job.’
‘I know.’
I couldn’t see him smile, but I heard it in his voice. ‘We both know a bruise on your cheek is worth more than a cartload of Top Secret papers, but the fact remains, I’m afraid, that I’m still on the pay-roll.’
‘All right, Lewis. It’s all right.’
‘Get in there, then, and stay still. I won’t be long.’
‘Lewis . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Be – careful, won’t you? He’s dangerous.’
Lewis laughed.
The inside of the old carriage enclosed me like a small safe box, smelling fusty and close, of old mouldering leather and straw. There were curtains at the windows, thick and dampish; they felt like brocade. With fingers fumbling in the dark I found the loop that held them, and loosened it, and the curtains fell across the window, shutting out what little light there was. Then I crouched back on the burst and prickly squabs to wait.
Though I could see nothing, shut safely away in the darkness of my little box, I found that I could hear. The top sections of the carriage doors were of glass, rather like those of a railway compartment, and on the side nearest to the stable either the glass was broken, or the window had been lowered and was standing wide. I could feel a draught of air from it, and almost immediately I heard the sound of stealthy footsteps in the courtyard, and then the quiet click of the stable latch.
Now, the old carriage was parked within two yards of the wall dividing stable and coach-house, beside the connecting door. This was shut, but, peering out avidly between the folds of damp brocade, I saw a wide bar of light at the foot of the door wavering a little, but growing as Sandor, flashlight in hand, approached the end of the stable nearest me, where the corn bin stood.
He was being quiet, but not especially so; he must have watched Lewis, the late-coming guest, go into the house; he would guess it was the delayed husband, but might count himself safe enough for the time it would take for Lewis to reach his room, find his wife gone, and start to look for her. All he wanted now was to get what he had come for, and escape as quickly as possible.
There was a soft metallic clink as the corn bin lid was lifted. A shuffling sound followed, and a falling rustle as the saddle was lifted clear of the corn, then it was dumped on the floor, and the lid closed.
He didn’t hurry away as I had expected. I strained my ears to hear what he was doing, but couldn’t guess . . . I heard more shuffling sounds, even the noise of his rapid breathing, and presently I could have sworn that I heard the sound of ripping cloth. Since there were no more ‘jewels’ left for him to tear away, he must be opening the thing up. Lewis was right; the ‘jewels’ were worthless after all; there must be something else contained in the saddle, and, sooner than carry away the whole clumsy burden, Sandor was taking the time to remove whatever he had so carefully stitched into the padding. I remembered his offer to stitch the thing, and its much-mended look.
Two minutes, Lewis had said. With no light to see the time, there was no judging it at all. It might have been two minutes, or four, or forty, but it was probably not much more than Lewis’s two, before quite suddenly, near me, the sounds ceased.
In the silence that followed, I heard again the click of the stable latch, and steps approaching, quiet but unconcealed.
Unbelievingly, horrified, I heard Timothy’s voice.
‘Who’s that – why, Herr Balog! What are you doing here?’ And then, sharply: ‘What on earth are you doing with that saddle? Look, just what is going on around here? And where’s Vanessa? Ah, you—’
The rush of feet; the brief sound of a scuffle; a cry from Timothy, bitten off. A thud, and then the racing sound of retreating footsteps. They made for the stable door, and out, th
en I heard them cross the corner of the courtyard, to be lost as he reached the archway and the bridge.
‘Timothy!’ Somehow I got the carriage door open. I stumbled out, missing the single step and almost falling. The light had gone with Sandor, but my hands found the door handle and the massive key of their own volition, and in a matter of seconds I had the big door open and was in the stable.
Moonlight spilled mistily through the cobwebbed window opposite Grane’s box. Beside the corn bin, huddled on the floor near the wreck of the saddle, lay Timothy.
I flew to kneel beside him, and almost choked on a cry of thankfulness as he moved. He put a hand to his head, and struggled strongly enough up on to one elbow.
‘Vanessa? What happened?’
‘Are you all right, Tim? Where did he hit you?’
‘My head . . . no, he missed . . . my neck . . . blast, it’s sore, but I think it’s all right. It was that swine Sandor, you know, the—’
‘Yes, I know. Don’t worry about that now. Are you sure you’re all right? You went with the most awful crack, I heard you clear through the door, I thought you’d hit your head on the corn bin.’
‘I think that must have been my elbow. Hell, yes, it was, the funny bone.’ He was sitting up now and rubbing his elbow vigorously. ‘I think it’s paralysed, probably for life, the stinking swine. I suppose he’s made off? I say, he was ripping the saddle open. What in the world—?’
‘What in the world—?’ The echo came from the shadows just behind us, and we both jumped like guilty things upon a fearful summons. We’d have made very bad agents, Timothy and I. It could easily have been Sandor returning: but it was Lewis, looking for one fantastic second not like Lewis at all, but like something as dangerous as Sandor himself, and straight from Sandor’s world.
But almost before we had seen the gun in his hand it had vanished from sight again, and he said: ‘Timothy, it’s you. I suppose you caught him at it. What the devil brought you down? No, never mind, he’s gone and I’ve got to get after him. Did you see what he took?’
‘Packets of some kind, flat packets . . . about the size of those detergent samples they shove through your door.’ Timothy abandoned the elbow, and began to scramble to his feet. ‘He’s left one, anyway. I fell on it.’
Almost before the boy’s body had left the ground, Lewis had pounced on the thing. It was an oblong flat package, not much bigger than a manilla envelope, made apparently of polythene. Lewis whipped a knife out and slit a corner of it, gingerly. He sniffed, then shook a few grains of powder into the palm of his hand, and tasted them.
‘What is it?’ asked Timothy.
Lewis didn’t answer. He folded the cut corner down, and thrust the package back into Timothy’s hands, saying abruptly: ‘Keep that safely for me, don’t let anyone see it. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, quite.’
‘Then stay with Vanessa.’
‘But I—’
But Lewis had already gone. I heard the door of his car open and then slam behind him as he got in. The engine raced to life.
As the Mercedes swung backwards out of the coach-house I jumped up and ran out into the courtyard. The car swept back in a tight arc and paused. I jumped at the offside door and dragged at the handle. Lewis leaned across and flicked the lock open and I pulled it wide.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m coming with you. Don’t ask me not to, please. I won’t get in your way, I promise. But don’t ask me to stay away.’
He hesitated only fractionally. Then he jerked his head. ‘All right, get in.’ As I scrambled in beside him, Timothy reached in over my shoulder and pulled open the lock of the back door.
‘Me, too. Please, Mr March. I could help, I honestly could. I’d like to.’
Lewis laughed suddenly. ‘Come one, come all,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s just as well I’ve handed in my cards, isn’t it? All right, get in, only for God’s sake hurry.’
Before Timothy’s door was shut the Mercedes had leapt forward from a standing start, swept round with a whine of tyres, and was shooting for the narrow archway like a bullet from a gun. Her headlights flicked on momentarily, the archway lighted, leapt at us, echoed past us with a slam like the smack of a sail. The bridge boomed for a second beneath us, and then, lights out, engine silken and quiet, we were running downhill under the tunnel of the dark pines.
17
If Lewis by your assistance win the day . . .
Shakespeare: King John
‘I don’t suppose he’s using lights either,’ said Lewis. His voice was rather less excited than if he had been driving to meet a train. ‘But take a look and see if either of you can see where he is, will you?’
‘Did he have a car?’ asked Timothy.
‘A jeep. At least, I saw a jeep parked to one side among the trees when I was on my way up. I had a look at it. I’ll bet it was his. See if you can see anything.’
The Mercedes swung left-handed into the first arm of the zigzag and Timothy and I peered out and down, through the black stems of the trees. At first I could see nothing, but then, just as Lewis swung wide to take the next bend, I saw a flash of bright light, momentarily, it seemed a long way below.
Timothy and I both exclaimed together: ‘There! There he is!’ I added quickly: ‘There was just a flash a fair way down. It’s gone again.’
Timothy said: ‘Wasn’t there a sort of woodman’s hut away down there? I seem to remember noticing it before. When his lights flashed on, I thought I saw it in the beam.’
‘Yes, there was,’ said Lewis. ‘Damnation.’
‘Why?’
‘I think I know why he put his lights on. Just beside that hut there’s a forest track going off. I can’t imagine why he should flash his lights unless he wanted to see his way into it. He’d manage it easily enough with a jeep, but whether we can with this car’s another matter. We’ll see. Well, supposing you tell us what happened, Tim. What were you doing down in the stable?’
‘Something woke me, I’m not sure what it was. A cry or something. Did you call out, Vanessa?’
‘Yes.’
‘That must have been it, then . . . But I wasn’t sure. You know how you lie awake and wonder what it was that wakened you? Well, I lay and listened for a bit, and I didn’t hear anything else, and I thought I must have been mistaken. Then – I don’t know . . . I felt sort of uneasy; so after a bit I got up out of bed and went to the door. I thought I heard a door open somewhere, so I opened my own door and looked out into the corridor. But there was nobody there, and then I definitely heard a sound. I thought it was from Vanessa’s room.’
‘That would be when he had my inner door open,’ I said. ‘You might have heard something.’
‘Yes? Well, anyway . . . It occurred to me then that you might have come, Mr March, and you might have been going to Vanessa’s room, so I thought I’d just made a fool of myself, and I went back into my own room and shut the door. I was wide awake by that time, so I went across to the window, and just stood looking out. The moonlight was marvellous, and I just stood looking, and – well, thinking . . . and then I thought I saw someone dodging about among the battlements, over by the gate tower. I couldn’t see at all clearly, because of the trees beyond, and the shadows, and at first I thought I was just being imaginative, but after a bit I was certain there was someone there. So I shoved some clothes on and ran along to tell Vanessa. I mean, enough odd things have been happening to make me wonder, if you know what I mean.’
‘We know what you mean,’ said Lewis.
‘I opened the outside door of Vanessa’s room to knock on the inner one, but that was wide open, and then I saw the room was empty and the curtains were pulled back all anyhow, and the little door was open. So of course I went out on the roof. I was a bit uneasy now – I mean, you and Vanessa might just have gone for a moonlight walk or something, but I didn’t think you’d have left the door open, or the curtain dragged back like that . . . In any case, I kept pretty quiet, and I’d
got a fair way round the roof when I saw the car arrive. Everything was dead quiet, so I just stood and waited where I couldn’t be seen. Then you went into the castle, and you hadn’t been gone two seconds when I saw him move. I couldn’t see who it was, but it was Sandor, of course. He was on the roof beside the gate tower. He ran down those steps into the courtyard. I looked over, and saw him go into the stable.’
‘So,’ said Lewis, rather dryly, ‘naturally, you followed him.’
‘Yes. Well, naturally.’ Timothy sounded faintly surprised. ‘I mean, there was the cry I thought I’d heard, and all the mystery and everything. I don’t know what I thought about it, I thought it might have something to do with old Piebald. After all, he was a stolen horse, and I suppose he’s valuable. But I tell you I didn’t think about it at all, I just went in very quietly, and there he was on the floor, ripping the saddle to pieces. I think I asked him what he was up to, and then he went for me. I’m sorry if I’ve done anything wrong and spoilt things.’
‘You jumped the gun a bit, but probably not much. He hadn’t much time to spare, and I still hope we’re not going to lose him. In any case, I’m grateful to you for your care of my wife.’
‘Oh . . .’ Timothy swallowed, then managed, negligently enough, and man to man: ‘Well, naturally, anything I can do . . .’
‘Believe me, you’ve done plenty. Whether you meant it or not, it was a master-stroke getting that package. Now we know exactly where we are. I really am grateful to you for that.’
‘Single-minded swine,’ I said, without rancour.
I saw him grin. Timothy cut in again from behind us. ‘What was it? Something must be pretty valuable.’
‘It is. Hang on to your package, Mr Lacy. It’s several hundred pounds’ worth of cocaine, unless I’m much mistaken.’
‘Cocaine! Drugs? Dope rings, and all that jazz? Gosh!’ Timothy sounded neither shocked nor alarmed, but only excited and vastly pleased. ‘Gosh! I say, Vanessa, did you get that? Sandor Balog, eh? I knew he was a stinker! And I’m sure there were at least half a dozen packets, maybe more. Big deal.’
