Shattered

by Dick Francis

  “Who?” I repeated, and I suppose my lack of emphasis went some way towards persuading him to give the facts daylight.

  “When Martin died,” he said, “I drove his things back here, as you know, and then as my own car was in dock having the... er... the tires, you see, needed replacing...”

  I nodded without judgment or a smile.

  Priam, encouraged, went on. “Well ... Bon-Bon said I could take Martin’s car, she would have said yes to anything, she was terribly distraught, so I just drove Martin’s car to my home and then back to Broadway, with Baxter’s bag and your raincoat, and then I drove myself home again in it. In the morning, when I came in from morning exercise with the first lot of horses, my phone was ringing, and it was Eddie Payne ...” Priam took a breath, but seemed committed to finishing. “Well ... Eddie asked me then if I was sure the tape I’d taken back to your shop was without doubt the one he’d given you at Cheltenham, and I said I was absolutely certain, and as that was that, he rang off.”

  Priam’s tale had ended. He took a deep swallow of whisky, and I poured him a stronger refill, a pick-you-up from the confessional.

  Eddie himself had been to confession. Eddie hadn’t been able to face Martin’s funeral. Eddie was afraid of his daughter Rose, and Eddie had put on a black mask to do me a good deal of damage. If Tom and the Dobermans hadn’t been passing, Eddie’s sins would have involved a good deal more of deep-soul shriving.

  It had taken such a lot of angst for Priam to answer a fairly simple question that I dug around in what I’d heard to see if Priam knew consequences that I didn’t.

  Could he have been Blackmask Four? Unknown factor X?

  Ed Payne had probably told Rose that the tape stolen from Logan Glass at the turnover of the new century had to do with a necklace. Rose had not necessarily believed him. Rose, knowing that such a necklace existed, but not realizing that the tape, if found, wasn’t itself worth much and certainly not a million, may have hungered for it fiercely enough to anesthetize everyone around at Bon-Bon’s house with cyclopropane, and gather up every videotape in sight.

  I had thought at the time that it had been a man who had sprung out from behind the door and hit me unconscious, but on reflection it could have been Rose herself. Rose, agile, strong and determined, would without question lash out when it came to attacking a man. I knew all about that.

  Thoughtfully I asked Priam, as if I’d forgotten I’d asked him before, “How well do you know Rose Payne?”

  “I don’t know her,” he replied at once, and then, more slowly, revised the assertion and watered it down. “I’ve seen her around.”

  “How well does she know Adam Force, would you say? Do you think Doctor Force would be foolish enough to lend her a cylinder of gas from a nursing home he visits?”

  Priam looked as shocked as if I’d run him through with swords, but unfortunately from my own point of view he didn’t actually flag-wave any signs of guilt. He didn’t feel guilty; almost no one did.

  Bon-Bon’s “early supper” proved to be just that, slightly to Priam’s disappointment. He preferred grandeur, but everyone sat around the big kitchen table, Marigold, Worthington, the children, Bon-Bon, me and Priam himself. I also acted as waiter, as I often did in that house, though Daniel, the elder boy, carried empty dishes sometimes.

  “Gerard,” he said, standing solidly in front of me between courses, to gain my attention, “Who’s Victor?”

  I paid attention very fast and said, “He’s a boy. Tell me what you’ve heard.”

  “Is it still the same?” Daniel asked. “Do we get the gold coins?”

  “No, of course not,” Bon-Bon scolded. “That was a game.”

  “So is this,” I promised her, “so do let’s play the same way.”

  I dug in a pocket and found some loose change, surprised I had any left after the twenty or more coins they’d won several days earlier.

  “What about Victor?” I asked. I put a coin flat on the table and Daniel said, “There are two things,” so I put down a second coin.

  “You’re teaching these children all wrong,” Marigold berated.

  Theoretically I might agree with her but Daniel unexpectedly spoke up. “Gerard told Worthington and a friend of his that you have to pay for what you get.”

  Marigold’s disfavor spread to her chauffeur, but Daniel, not understanding, simply waited for me to listen.

  “Go on,” I said. “Two pieces of treasure. And they’d better be worth it.” I grinned at him. He put his chubby hand flat over the coins and said directly to me, “He wants to tell you a secret.”

  “When did he say that?”-I took him seriously, but the other adults laughed.

  Daniel picked up one of the gold coins. Mercenary little devil, I thought.

  Daniel said, “He phoned here. Mommy was out in the garden, so I answered it. He said he was Victor. He didn’t want to talk to Mommy, but only to you. You weren’t here, but I told him you were coming for supper so he said to tell you he would try again, if he could.”

  Daniel’s hand hovered in the air over the second coin. I nodded philosophically and he whisked it away in a flash.

  “That’s disgraceful!” Marigold told me severely. “You’re teaching my grandson all sorts of bad habits.”

  “It’s a game,” I repeated, and one for eleven-year-olds. Bright though he was, I thought Daniel had done a good piece of work.

  “Early supper” ended at seven-thirty, an hour before the younger children’s bedtime. Marigold, her mercurial spirits restored, gave Daniel a forgiving good-night hug that swallowed him in caftan, and after coffee, three large slugs of Grand Marnier and a giggly chat on the telephone with Kenneth Trubshaw involving the sponsorship of gold trophies, Marigold floated out to the Rolls in clouds of goodwill and let Worthington solici tously install her in the backseat and drive off to her home.

  Priam Jones felt less than decently treated. He let Bon-Bon know, while thanking her for her hospitality, that as a racehorse trainer of prestige, and especially as her husband’s ex—chief employer, he would have enjoyed more attention and consideration. He bestowed an even cooler farewell nod to me and in irritation gave his new tires a harsh workout in his departure across the gravel. Poor Priam, I thought. It couldn’t be much fun being him.

  Victor kept me waiting a long time. Bon-Bon, going upstairs to read stories to the children, gave me a kiss good night and waved me to the den for the evening; but it was after eleven o‘clock when the fifth caller on the line spoke with the familiar cracked voice of Taunton.

  “Gerard? I’m in a public phone box. Mom thinks I’m in bed. She threw away your mobile number. I can’t use the e-mail. Auntie Rose has taken my computer... I’m absolutely sick of things. I want to see you. Tell me where. I’m running out of money.”

  There were indeed too many time-over warning clicks. He was feeding small coins, I supposed, because he hadn’t any others. In a short period of peace I said, “I’ll come to Taunton station. Same train, on Sunday.”

  “No. Tomorrow. Please, tomorrow.”

  I agreed, and the line went dead.

  You’re raving mad, that’s what you are,“ Tom Pigeon said at seven in the morning, when I told him. ”Today’s Friday. The boy should be in school.“

  “That’s probably why he was so insistent. He could skip school without his mother knowing.”

  “You’re not going,” Tom said positively; and then, a few seconds later, “We’ll get Jim to drive us; he’s got an estate car for the dogs. Where are you?”

  “At the Stukelys‘. Can you pick me up here?”

  “Last Sunday, five days ago,” Tom said with mock patience, “dear Rose tore your face open in Taunton with the tap end of a garden hose.”

  “Mm,” I agreed.

  “And the day before yesterday, I hear, you nearly got yourself killed.”

  “Well ...”

  “How about staying at home?”

  I smiled at the silly idea.

&nbs
p; 10

  By Friday Jim’s wife had told him I was accursed by demons and he should no longer drive me. Our lateness on Wednesday had burned her risotto.

  Jim and I however came to a mutual understanding and shook hands on it. He would drive when I needed him in bodyguard status, there would be no radio, and I would pay him double.

  Despite this slightly crabby start, Jim drove Tom, me and the dogs cheerfully to Taunton and stopped in the no-parking zone outside the station. I remembered too late that the weekday timetable was different from Sunday’s, and the expected train had come and gone, leaving Victor stranded.

  He wasn’t on the platform.

  Giving Tom the news and receiving a promise to sit and wait, I hurried along the road until 19 Lorna Terrace was in sight. No Victor. Back to the station—and I found him there, cold and anxious, in the waiting room.

  He stood up looking thin and stressed, my arrival not enough to bring out smiles. I’d spent part of the journey adding Victor into every event that Blackmask Four could have attended without disguise, and feeling I was nowhere near as good as George Lawson-Young at this factor-X stuff, I couldn’t make X fit Victor anywhere.

  “I’m late because I didn’t come on the train,” I briefly explained. “What’s the matter?”

  “I want ...” He sounded as desperate as he looked. He began again. “Auntie Rose has moved into our house.... I hate her. I can’t bear her, and Mom won’t speak to me unless I do what Auntie Rose says; because Mom’s that scared of her. And my dad, when he gets out, won’t come home while she’s there. I know he won‘t, so where can I go? What can I do? I don’t know anyone except you to ask, and that’s a laugh really, considering your face....”

  “Did you try your grandfather?”

  Victor said hopelessly, “He’s shit scared of Auntie Rose. Worse than Mom.”

  I said, “Last Sunday ...” and he interrupted.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about your face. I thought you wouldn’t come today.... I thought you hadn’t come.”

  “Forget about last Sunday,” I said. “Concentrate on Adam Force instead.”

  “He’s great,” Victor said without fervor, and then with a frown, added, “Everyone says so. He sometimes used my computer. That’s how I got his letter. He thought he had deleted the file but I found it in the cache memory.”

  It explained a lot.

  I asked, “How long has he known your auntie Rose?” and this time I got an answer.

  “About as long as he’s known Mom. Months, that is. Mom went on the bus trip to his clinic, and he got hooked on her. He was a real cool guy, I thought. He came round for her when Dad was at work. So when Auntie Rose finds out, she goes round to the hotel where Dad’s working and says if he comes home quick he’ll catch them at it in Dad’s own bed; so Dad goes round and Doctor Force has gone by then, but Dad gives Mom a hell of a beating, breaking her nose and about six of her ribs and things, and Auntie Rose goes round to the cops and tells on Dad. So they put him away for twelve months. Then, last Sunday,” he said miserably, “Auntie Rose takes Adam Force off Mom, which she meant to do all along, I reckon, and now he does what she tells him, and it’s queer, but I’d say she hits him pretty hard most days; and then I’ve seen them kissing after that.”

  He spoke in puzzlement, and Worthington, I thought, could explain a thing or two to Victor. Fatherly, steady and worldly, Worthington, a great fellow, simply couldn’t be Blackmask Four. And Victor? Surely not Victor, though Blackmask Four hadn’t been bodily substantial, like Worthington, but lithe, like Victor. But Victor couldn’t have bashed me about then, and asked me for help now.

  Not Victor, not Worthington, but what about Gina? Was she muscular enough? I didn’t know for sure, and, I decided reluctantly, I would have to find out. I’d been through almost the whole register of cul-de-sacs and failed to find anyone that fitted a factor X. Yet there had indeed been a fourth black-masked attacker. I had felt the hands. I’d felt the blows. I’d seen the eyes within the mask. Blackmask Four was real.

  According to the professor, there was a question I wasn’t asking, and if I didn’t ask the right question, how could I expect to be told the right answer? But what was the right question? And whom should I ask?

  With a mental sigh I took Victor out of the station, and to his obvious pleasure reunited him with Tom and his three black canine companions. He told Tom that that day, the Sunday that we’d spent on the moor, had been one of his happiest ever. Happiest, that was, until his auntie Rose had ruined it.

  He played with the dogs, plainly in their good graces, and spoke to them instead of us. The black ears heard him say, “I’ll bet people can still run away to sea.”

  I said after a while, “I’ll go round to Victor’s house, and if his mother’s in I’ll ask her if he can spend the weekend with us.”

  Tom protested, “I’ll go.”

  “We’ll both go,” I said, and in spite of Victor’s fears we left him with Jim, and, taking the dogs with us, knocked on the door of the roughly repaired entrance to 19 Lorna Terrace.

  Gina Verity came to our summons and failed to close her mended door against us fast enough. Tom’s heavy shoe was quicker.

  In the five days since the previous Sunday, Gina had lost her looks, her serenity and her confidence. She stared at my slashed and mending jaw as if it were one straw too many. She said helplessly, “You’d better come in,” and with sagging shoulders led me down the now familiar passage to the kitchen. We sat, as before, at the table.

  Tom and the dogs stood on guard outside the house because Gina didn’t know when either her sister or Adam Force would return.

  “I would like to invite Victor to stay for the weekend,” I said.

  Gina lit cigarette from cigarette, as before. “All right,” she agreed in a dull sort of way. “Pick him up from school.” She thought it over. “Better not let Rose find out, she wouldn’t let him go with you.”

  Gina’s left-hand fingers were stained nearly orange with nicotine. The right-hand fingers were white. I stretched forward and lifted first her right hand and then her left, putting them down again gently. The muscles were flabby, with no tone. Too apathetic to complain, she merely looked at her own hands one by one, and said, “What?”

  I didn’t reply. Blackmask Four’s left hand hadn’t been as intensely yellow as this one, even seen under the streetlights and even while actively punching. With those strongly muscled arms, Blackmask Four had been male.

  Gina had not been Blackmask Four. The certainty was unarguable.

  Time to go.

  Out in front of the house Tom’s equivalent of my alarm whistle set up a howling, growling, barking clamor, which the dogs only ever did at their owner’s prompting.

  Gina immediately stood and shrank away from the table, her eyes wide with unmistakable fear. “It’s Rose,” Gina said. “She’s come back. She always makes dogs bark. They don’t like her. She makes their hair stand on end.”

  Mine too, I thought. The deep-throated Dobermans went on proving Gina right.

  “Go,” Gina said to me, her tongue sticking on the words. “Go out. Out through the backyard ... and out through the gate and down the lane. Go, go. Hurry.” Her urgency was for my own safety as much as hers.

  It might have been prudent to go, but I’d never been a wise devotee of the “He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day” school of thought. Running away from Rose... I supposed that I’d already escaped three times from her traps, and once from Adam Force... With that amount of good luck, I thought, I might remain a bit longer undestroyed.

  I stayed sitting at the table, though with chair pushed back and one knee over the other, while the front door creaked open and the purposeful footsteps came along the passage.

  Not only Rose had come, but Adam Force with her. Rose had recognized Tom and his sidekicks, but the doctor was pinning his negative emotions entirely on me. He’d set me up two days ago as an insulin-dosed car crash hit-and-run v
ictim—a scheme that had gone wrong. My presence in that house shook him.

  Rose, interestingly, had bloomed as fast as Gina had faded. Her dry skin and frizzy hair seemed lubricated, and she was alight with what (thanks to Victor’s run-through) I could only interpret as satisfied sex.

  Adam Force, good-looking and charming though he still might be, was to my mind a con man sliding towards self-inflicted destruction. If he’d kept anywhere a copy of what he’d stolen from Professor Lawson-Young’s laboratory, Rose in the end would have it. Rose would acquire whatever she set out to get, man, tape or power.

  Rose had definitely worn one of the black masks, but Adam Force hadn’t. He hadn’t known who I was when I turned up at Phoenix House.

  I said lazily, rising to my feet, “We’ll not have a repeat of last Sunday. I came to see Gina, principally, but I came also to leave a message for Rose.”

  They listened attentively, to my amazement.

  I said, “The fourth of your band of black-masked thugs has whispered in my ear.”

  The possibility of my untruth being accurate froze Rose long enough for me to go forwards along the passage and into the Dobermans’ territory of safekeeping. Tom, eyebrows up, joined in step beside me once we were out in the road, and, unpursued, we walked along and around the bend towards the station, the dogs following in silence.

  “However did you manage to get out of there unharmed?” Tom asked. “I was sure you would whistle.”

  “I told them a lie.”

  He laughed. But it hadn’t been funny. Adam Force’s sharply focused calculating assessment of me from neck to ankles had been too much like a matter of adding up the amount of deadly substance needed per kilo of body weight to finish me off. A lethal amount of insulin ... a syringeful of “good-bye” threat, a cylinder of cyclopropane gas, a prelude to any sort of injected extinction... Rose would inflict instant damage, but Adam Force would more deliberately kill.

  In a normal kitchen, though Rose could always slash with knives, Adam Force wouldn’t have at hand any poison, his weapon of choice. He would need more time than he had.