Fear is the Key
Page 8
We spent perhaps ten minutes in that room, Jablonsky and I sitting, the hophead pacing up and down with the gun in his hand and hoping I would twitch an eyebrow, Royale leaning negligently against a table, nobody saying anything, until by and by the butler came in and said the general wanted to see us. We all trooped out again. Valentino was still there, but I made it safely to the library. Maybe he’d hurt his toe, but I knew it wasn’t that: Royale had told him once to lay off, and just once would be all that Royale would have to tell anybody anything.
A far from subtle change had taken place in the atmosphere since we’d left. The girl was sitting on a stool by the fire, head bent and the flickering light gleaming off her wheat-coloured braids, but Vyland and the general seemed easy and relaxed and confident and the latter was even smiling. A couple of newspapers were lying on the library table and I wondered sourly if those, with their big black banner headlines ‘Wanted Killer Slays Constable, Wounds Sheriff’ and the far from flattering pictures of myself had anything to do with their confidence. To emphasize the change in atmosphere, a footman came in with a tray of glasses, decanter and soda siphon. He was a young man, but moved with a peculiarly stiff leaden-footed gait and he laid the tray down on the table with so laborious a difficulty that you could almost hear his joints creak. His colour didn’t look too good either. I looked away, glanced at him again and then indifferently away once more, hoping that the knowledge of what I suddenly knew didn’t show in my face.
They’d read all the right books on etiquette, the footman and the butler knew exactly what to do. The footman brought in the drinks, the butler carried them around. He gave a sherry to the girl, whisky to each of the four men – Hophead was pointedly bypassed – and planted himself in front of me. My gaze travelled from his hairy wrists to his broken nose to the general in the background. The general nodded, so I looked back at the silver tray again. Pride said no, the magnificent aroma of the amber liquid that had been poured from the triangular dimpled bottle said yes, but pride carried the heavy handicap of my hunger, soaked clothes and the beating I’d just had and the aroma won looking round. I took the glass and eyed the general over the rim. ‘A last drink for the condemned man, eh, General?’
‘Not condemned yet.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Your health, Talbot.’
‘Very witty,’ I sneered. ‘What do they do in the state of Florida, General? Strap you over a cyanide bucket or just fry you in the hot seat?’
‘Your health,’ he repeated. ‘You’re not condemned, maybe you’ll never be condemned. I have a proposition to put before you, Talbot.’
I lowered myself carefully into a chair. Valentino’s boot must have mangled up one of the nerves in my leg, a thigh muscle was jumping uncontrollably. I waved at the papers lying on the library table.
‘I take it you’ve read those, General. I take it you know all about what happened today, all about my record. What kind of proposition can a man like you possibly have to put to a man like me?’
‘A very attractive one.’ I imagined I saw a touch of red touch the high cheekbones but he spoke steadily enough. ‘In exchange for a little service I wish you to perform for me I offer you your life.’
‘A fair offer. And the nature of this little service, General?’
‘I am not at liberty to tell you at present. In about, perhaps – thirty-six hours, would you say, Vyland?’
‘We should hear by then,’ Vyland agreed. He was less and less like an engineer every time I looked at him. He took a puff at his Corona and looked at me. ‘You agree to the general’s proposition, then?’
‘Don’t be silly. What else can I do? And after the job, whatever it is?’
‘You will be provided with papers and passport and sent to a certain South American country where you will have nothing to fear,’ the general answered. ‘I have the connections.’ Like hell I would be given papers and a trip to South America: I would be given a pair of concrete socks and a vertical trip to the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.
‘And if I don’t agree, then of course –’
‘If you don’t agree then they will all be overcome by a high sense of civic responsibility and turn you over to the cops,’ Jablonsky interrupted sardonically. ‘The whole set-up stinks to high heaven. Why should the general want you? – he can hire practically any man in the nation. Why, especially, should he hire a killer on the lam? What earthly use can you be to him? Why should he help a wanted murderer to evade justice?’ He sipped his drink thoughtfully. ‘General Blair Ruthven, the moral pillar of New England society, best-known and highest-minded do-gooder after the Rockefellers. It stinks. You’re paddling in some dark and dirty water, General. Very dark, very dirty. And paddling right up to your neck. Lord knows what stakes you must be playing for. They must be fantastic.’ He shook his head. ‘This I would never have believed.’
‘I have never willingly or knowingly done a dishonest thing in my life,’ the general said steadily.
‘Jeez!’ Jablonsky ejaculated. For a few seconds he was silent, then said suddenly: ‘Well, thanks for the drink, General. Don’t forget to sup with a long spoon. I’ll take my hat and my cheque and be on my way. The Jablonsky retirement fund is in your debt.’
I didn’t see who made the signal. Probably it came from Vyland. Again I didn’t see how the gun got into Royale’s hand. But I saw it there. So did Jablonsky. It was a tiny gun, a very flat automatic with a snub barrel, even smaller than the Lilliput the sheriff had taken from me. But Royale probably had the eye and the aim of a squirrel-hunter, and it was all he needed: a great big hole in the heart from a heavy Colt makes you no deader than a tiny little hole from a .22.
Jablonsky looked thoughtfully at the gun. ‘You would rather I stayed, General?’
‘Put that damn gun away,’ the general snapped. ‘Jablonsky’s on our side. At least, I hope he’s going to be. Yes, I’d rather you stayed. But no one’s going to make you if you don’t want to.’
‘And what’s going to make me want to?’ Jablonsky inquired of the company at large. ‘Could it be that the general, who has never willingly done a dishonest thing in his life, is planning to hold up payment on that cheque? Or maybe just planning to tear it up altogether?’
It didn’t need the general’s suddenly averted eyes to confirm Jablonsky’s guess. Vyland cut in smoothly: ‘It’ll only be for two days, Jablonsky, three at the most. After all, you are getting a great deal of money for very little. All we’re asking you to do is to ride herd on Talbot here until he’s done what we want him to do.’
Jablonsky nodded slowly. ‘I see. Royale here wouldn’t stoop to bodyguarding – he takes care of people in a rather more permanent way. The thug out in the passage there, the butler, our little friend Larry here – Talbot could eat ’em all before breakfast. You must need Talbot pretty badly, eh?’
‘We require him,’ Vyland said smoothly. ‘And from what we’ve learnt from Miss Ruthven – and from what Royale knows of you – you can hold him. And your money’s safe.’
‘Uh-huh. And tell me, am I a prisoner looking after a prisoner, or am I free to come and go?’
‘You heard what the general said,’ Vyland answered. ‘You’re a free agent. But if you do go out make sure he’s locked up or tied so that he can’t break for it.’
‘Seventy thousand bucks’ worth of guarding, eh?’ Jablonsky said grimly. ‘He’s safe as the gold in Fort Knox.’ I caught Royale and Vyland exchanging a brief flicker of a glance as Jablonsky went on: ‘But I’m kind of worried about that seventy thousand. I mean, if someone finds out Talbot is here, I won’t get the seventy thousand. All I’ll get, with my record, is ten years for obstructing the course of justice and giving aid and comfort to a wanted murderer.’ He looked speculatively at Vyland and the general and went on softly: ‘What guarantee have I that no one in this house will talk?’
‘No one will talk,’ Vyland said flatly.
‘The chauffeur lives in the lodge, doesn’t he?’ Jablonsky said obliquely.
‘No!’ the girl interrupted violently. She’d jumped to her feet, fists clenched by her sides.
‘Under no circumstances,’ General Ruthven said quietly. ‘Kennedy remains. We are too much in his debt.’
Vyland’s dark eyes narrowed for a moment and he looked at the general. But it was the girl who answered the unspoken query.
‘Simon won’t talk,’ she said tonelessly. She moved towards the door: ‘I’ll go to see him.’
‘Simon, eh?’ Vyland scraped a thumb-nail against the corner of his moustache, and looked at her appraisingly. ‘Simon Kennedy, chauffeur and general handyman.’
She retraced a few steps, stopped in front of Vyland and looked at him steadily, tiredly. You could just see the fifteen generations stretching back to the Mayflower and every one of the 285 million bucks was showing. She said distinctly: ‘I think you are the most utterly hateful man I have ever known,’ and walked out, closing the door behind her.
‘My daughter is overwrought,’ the general said hastily. ‘She –’
‘Forget it, General.’ Vyland’s voice was as urbane as ever, but he looked a bit overwrought himself. ‘Royale, you might show Jablonsky and Talbot their quarters for tonight. East end of the new wing – the rooms are being fixed now.’
Royale nodded, but Jablonsky held up his hand. ‘This job Talbot is going to do for you – is it in this house?’
General Ruthven glanced at Vyland, then shook his head.
‘Then where?’ Jablonsky demanded. ‘If this guy is taken out of here and anybody within a hundred miles spots him, we’ve had it. Particularly, it would be goodbye to my money. I think I’m entitled to a little reassurance on this point, General.’
Again the swift interchange of looks between the general and Vyland, again the latter’s all but imperceptible nod.
‘I think we can tell you that,’ the general said.
‘The job’s on the X 13, my oil rig out in the gulf.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Fifteen miles from here and well out in the gulf. No passers-by to see him there, Mr Jablonsky.’
Jablonsky nodded, as though for the moment satisfied, and said no more. I stared at the ground. I didn’t dare to look up. Royale said softly: ‘Let’s be on our way.’
I finished my drink and got up. The heavy library door opened outwards into the passage and Royale, gun in hand, stood to one side to let me pass through first. He should have known better. Or maybe my limp deceived him. People thought my limp slowed me up, but people were wrong.
Valentino had disappeared. I went through the doorway, slowed up and moved to one side round the edge of the door as if I were waiting for Royale to catch up and show me where to go, then whirled round and smashed the sole of my right foot against the door with all the speed and power I could muster.
Royale got nailed neatly between door and jamb. Had it been his head that was caught it would have been curtains. As it was, it caught his shoulders but even so it was enough to make him grunt in agony and send the gun spinning out of his hand to fall a couple of yards down the passage. I dived for it, I scooped it up by the barrel, swung round, still crouched, as I heard the quick step behind me. The butt of the automatic caught the diving Royale somewhere on the face, I couldn’t be sure where, but it sounded like a four-pound axe sinking into the bole of a pine. He was unconscious before he hit me – but he did hit me. An axe won’t stop a falling pine. It took only a couple of seconds to push him off and change my grip to the butt of the pistol, but two seconds would always be enough and more than enough for a man like Jablonsky.
His foot caught my gun-hand and the gun landed twenty feet away. I launched myself for his legs but he moved to one side with the speed of a fly-weight, lifted his knee and sent me crashing against the open door. And then it was too late, for he had the Mauser in his hand and it was pointing between my eyes.
I climbed slowly to my feet, not trying anything. The general and Vyland, the latter with a gun in his hand, came crowding through the open door, then relaxed when they saw Jablonsky with the gun on me. Vyland bent down and helped a now-moaning Royale to a sitting position. Royale had a long, heavily bleeding cut above his left eye and and tomorrow he’d have a duck’s egg bruise there. After maybe half a minute he shook his head to clear it, wiped blood away with the back of his hand and looked slowly round till his eyes found mine. I’d been mistaken. I’d thought his the emptiest, the most expressionless eyes I’d ever seen, but I’d been mistaken. I looked in them and I could almost smell the moist freshly-turned earth of an open grave.
‘I can see that you gents really do need me around,’ Jablonsky said jovially. ‘I never thought anyone would try that stuff with Royale and live to talk about it. But we learn.’ He dug into a side pocket and brought out a set of very slender blued-steel cuffs and slipped them expertly on my wrists. ‘A souvenir of the bad old days,’ he explained apologetically. ‘Would there happen to be another pair and some wire or chain round the house?’
‘It might be arranged,’ Vyland said almost mechanically. He still couldn’t credit what had happened to his infallible hatchet-man.
‘Fine.’ Jablonsky grinned down at Royale. ‘You don’t need to lock your door tonight. I’ll keep Talbot out of your hair.’ Royale transferred his sombre, evil stare from my face to Jablonsky’s and his expression didn’t alter any that I could see. I fancied perhaps Royale was beginning to have ideas about a double grave.
The butler took us upstairs and along a narrow passage to the back of the big house, took a key from his pocket, unlocked the door and ushered us in. It was just another bedroom, sparsely but expensively furnished, with a wash-basin in one corner and a modern mahogany bed in the middle of the right wall. To the left was a communicating door to another bedroom. The butler took a second key from his pocket and unlocked this door also. It gave on to another room, the mirror image of the first, except for the bed, which was an old-fashioned iron-railed effort. It looked as if it had been made with girders left over from the Key West bridge. It looked solid. It looked as if it were going to be my bed.
We went back into the other room. Jablonsky stretched out his hand. ‘The keys, please.’
The butler hesitated, peered uncertainly at him, then shrugged, handed over the keys and turned to leave. Jablonsky said pleasantly: ‘This Mauser I’m holding here, friend – want that I should bounce it off your head two three times?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.’
‘“Sir”, hey? That’s good. I wouldn’t have expected them to have books on buttling in Alcatraz. The other key, my friend. The one leading to the passage from Talbot’s room.’
The butler scowled, handed over a third key, and left. Whatever buttling book he’d read he’d skipped the section on closing doors, but it was a stout door and it stood up to it. Jablonsky grinned, locked the door with an ostentatious click, pulled the curtains, checked rapidly that there were no peep-holes in the walls and crossed back to where I stood. Five or six times he smacked a massive fist into a massive palm, kicked the wall and knocked over an armchair with a thud that shook the room. Then he said, not too softly, not too loudly: ‘Get up when you’re ready, friend. That’s just a little warning, shall we say, not to try any further tricks like you tried on Royale. Just move one finger and you’ll think the Chrysler building fell on top of you.’
I didn’t move a finger. Neither did Jablonsky. There was a complete silence inside the room. We listened hard. The silence in the passageway outside was not complete. With his flat feet and adenoidal, broken-nosed breathing, the butler was completely miscast as the Last of the Mohicans and he was a good twenty feet away by the time the thick carpet absorbed the last of his creaking footfalls.
Jablonsky took out a key, softly opened the handcuffs, pocketed them and shook my hand as if he meant to break every finger I had. I felt like it, too, but for all that my grin was as bi
g, as delighted as his own. We lit cigarettes and started on the two rooms with toothpicks, looking for bugs and listening devices.
The place was loaded with them.
Exactly twenty-four hours later I climbed into the sports car that had been left empty, but with the ignition key in the lock, four hundred yards away from the entrance lodge to the general’s house. It was a Chevrolet Corvette – the same car that I’d stolen the previous afternoon when I’d been holding Mary Ruthven hostage.
The rain yesterday had vanished, completely. The sky had been blue and cloudless all day long – and for me it had been a very long day indeed. Lying fully dressed and handcuffed to the rails of an iron bed for twelve hours while the temperature in a closed-window south-facing room rises to a hundred in the shade – well, the heat and the somnolent inactivity would have been just right for a Galapagos tortoise. It left me as limp as a shot rabbit. They’d kept me there all day, Jablonsky bringing me food and parading me shortly after dinner before the general, Vyland and Royale to let them see how good a watch-dog he was and that I was still relatively intact. Relatively was the word: to increase the effect I’d redoubled my limp and had sticking plaster crossed over cheek and chin.
Royale needed no such adventitious aids to advertise the fact that he had been in the wars. I doubt if they made sticking plaster wide enough to cover the enormous bruise he had on his forehead. His right eye was the same bluish-purple as the bruise, and completely shut. I’d done a good job on Royale: and I knew, for all the empty remote expression that was back in his face and one good eye, that he’d never rest until he’d done a better job on me. A permanent job.
The night air was cool and sweet and full of the smell of the salt air. I had the hood down and as I travelled south I leaned far back and to one side to let the freshness drive away the last of the cobwebs from my dopy mind. It wasn’t just the heat that had made my mind sluggish, I had slept so long during that sticky afternoon that I was overslept and paying for it: but then, I wasn’t going to get much sleep that coming night. Once or twice I thought of Jablonsky, that big black smiling man with the engaging grin, sitting back in his upstairs room diligently and solemnly guarding my empty bedroom with all three keys in his pocket. I felt in my own pocket and they were still there, the duplicates that Jablonsky had had cut that morning when he had taken the air in the direction of Marble Springs. Jablonsky had been busy that morning.