by Desmond Cory
Johnny arched his wrist to glance at his watch; simultaneously, almost as though his movement had been a signal, O’Brien opened his eyes. For a few moments he did nothing but stare dully in front of him, as though stupefied by sleep; then slowly, as though painfully, he began to lever himself upright in his chair.
“What’s the time, Johnny?”
“I make it almost five minutes to four.”
“Well, well, well.” O’Brien yawned and stretched himself. Johnny noticed the awkward, uneven articulation of his left arm. “I must have had a nice little nap. My friend’ll be along at any moment.”
“I was wondering whether or not to wake you.”
“No, I’d remembered all right. You know, I’ve changed my mind.” O’Brien leaned forward, letting his arms hang loosely down from his shoulders. “Maybe it would be better if I and my pal had our little interview in private, after all. Do you mind very much?”
“Not at all,” said Johnny. (And be careful now, he told himself.) “I’ll go out for a little stroll round the town.”
“Oh no. There’s no need for that. We’ll take a walk round together, if you like, in the evening - when it’s not so flaming hot.” O’Brien stood up with a jerk. “Why don’t you just sit down outside? On the verandah, I mean, in the shade. You can make yourself quite comfortable there.”
“Well … Yes, all right.”
“Nice view, isn’t it?” O’Brien strutted over to the french windows, filled his huge chest with the warm and scented air of the afternoon. “I like to look at that sea, and think I’ll be crossing it tonight … Saying good-bye to Africa for a while. Well, it’s a great place, but I think I’ve had about enough of it to hold me a little while.”
Johnny stood beside him and looked towards that purple and that azure horizon. Against that denseness of colour were the clean white triangles of sails; looking at them, Johnny felt also some unnameable emotion within him. Those sails were a symbol of something perpetually new, something for ever stirring …
He went back into the studio, and looked for a few moments at the stone Crusader. Somewhere in the patio a bell began to ring, slowly and melodiously; O’Brien turned.
“That’ll be him,” he said. His voice was flat, but there was something of excitement beneath it. “… Sit out here, will you, old boy? I’ll try not to keep you too long.”
He walked in long strides towards the door; Johnny, after a moment’s hesitation, went out again to the verandah and seated himself in one of the faded deck-chairs there. The sea hung like smoke in the distance; between him and the water were the brown twisted roofs of houses, the poisonous green heads of palm-trees, all shivering uneasily under the pressure of a heavy afternoon sun … So O’Brien intended to keep an eye on his new partner, thought Johnny. A cautious fellow; not prone to take unnecessary chances, as opposed to sporting risks. It made matters rather more difficult.
Inside the room, a door opened and shut. Johnny heard it quite distinctly. “Yes,” said a voice. “Of course I got it. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
Throaty rumble of a laugh; that was O’Brien. “Now you are here, sit down, Mike. Make yourself at home.”
“All right. But I can tell you, I’m not staying long. You’d better get right down to brass tacks and tell me what you’re after this time.”
“Why, it’s the same as usual.”
“I rather thought as much.”
A chair squealed back on the tiled floor. It was Bailey, sure enough; the voice was unmistakable. So Emerald had been right. Johnny silently adjusted his position, leaning forward in the chair at a dangerous angle; with one finger, he opened a fraction the shutter behind him. As his eyes grew accustomed to the comparative gloom within, he made out the outline of the back of Bailey’s head; then his legs, sprawled out from the chair; beside him O’Brien, with his rugged unhandsome face in three-quarter profile. Listening attentively …
“… The fact is you’ve gone a bit too far this time, Buster. I always thought you would. Murder’s no laughing matter, Heaven knows.”
“Oh.” O’Brien ruminated. “You heard about that, did you?”
“I certainly did. They’re after you, you know.”
“It would be bad for us all if they caught me.”
“Well, you’d better be careful. They picked you up in no time at Bir Azahara.”
A muscle jerked in O’Brien’s cheek. “How did you know about that?”
“I happen to be stationed there.”
“Well I’m damned. So I’ve come all this way for … Never mind. It couldn’t be helped. But I thought you were in jets, old chap.”
“So I am.”
“Well, there isn’t a squadron at Bir Azahara, for God’s sake! All I could see there were a few lousy old Dakotas.”
“I don’t know that I much want to discuss my past and present history with you,” said Bailey, with some restraint. “Or military matters either.” O’Brien raised a hand, gracefully shelving the subject. “As you wish, Mike; as you wish. How is Margaret keeping?”
“Oh, she’s all right,” said Bailey irritably. Then, “Well, look here, Buster - how much do you want? Let’s get to the point.”
“I think a thousand would do me this time,” said O’Brien comfortably.
“A thousand? Pounds?”
“Of course.”
“My God,” said Bailey.
“Well, it’s not too much. Not for a gilded youth like you. And after all, I’m a murderer now - I’m putting up the price a bit accordingly.”
“Well,” said Bailey. And then again, “Well …”
“I’m going back to Europe, Mike. Chances are I’ll be keeping out of your way from now on. I won’t be asking you for any more loans … At least, I shouldn’t think so.”
Bailey grunted, and unbuttoned the pocket of his shirt. “It won’t be any good, if you do. This is the last … loan … you’re ever going to get out of me.”
O’Brien watched silently while Bailey scribbled in his cheque-book; his eyes not on the pen but on the other man’s face … “You said that with more than your usual confidence.”
“Did I?” Bailey looked up. “Just a private joke I’m enjoying.” Certainly his voice sounded faintly amused. “I have a feeling that, one way or another, Margaret isn’t going to be bothered with you much longer. Of course, I could be wrong.”
“Rude of you to put it like that. I was very fond of Margaret; I still am. And I still feel very bad about our … separation.” There was a sharp tear of perforated paper. O’Brien took the completed cheque from Bailey’s hand, and Bailey returned the cheque-book to his pocket. “Thanks very much, old man. It’s a fine feeling to have a brother-in-law that one can really depend on.”
“Never mind the delicate irony,” said Bailey. “Quite unnecessary. From now on, of course, you’re on your own …”
“That’s understood.”
“If you get caught … then we stay out of it.”
“Mum’s the word. Absolutely.”
“All right.” Bailey sighed. “I suppose it’s cheap at the price.”
“Good God, Mike; I’ve never asked you for the earth. It really would be too bad for you if I were a thoroughly nasty fellow … instead of just plain unlucky.”
Bailey made no reply, other than rising to his feet; his shoulders sagged dispiritedly. “I’m going. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to talk about. And if you … Well, I’m off.”
“Oh? I’m sorry you can’t stay to tea.” O’Brien got up, too; Johnny now saw that he had once more in his hand that small sculpted bust, and was again performing his nervous trick of tossing it into the air and, absently, catching it. “I’m always glad to see you, Michael, though you probably don’t believe me.”
“I do. I think you probably are. You’ve got dam’ good reason to be.”
“Touché. You’re looking very fit, though; honestly. Very brown and healthy. You’ll have to watch those nerves of yours, though.”
“Thanks for the advice. So long, Buster.”
“You’re really going?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, well. I’ll see you to—”
There was a sudden crash; O’Brien’s voice was cut off in a gasp. And then in the room there was silence. Johnny, stiffening in his chair, saw O’Brien standing very still in a curious half-hunched, half-upright posture; the bust, smashed into three parts, lay on the floor beside his straddled feet. Bailey, his mouth open, was watching in surprise. “What’s the matter with you?” he said eventually; and his voice was almost solicitous.
O’Brien said nothing. Slowly, he raised his head; a wounded lion, smelling on the wind an alien scent. “I’m all right,” he said. “I’m all right.”
“What …?”
“Muscular cramp. Some kind of a muscular cramp. It comes on me at times.” O’Brien’s face was unnaturally white; he forced the words out, one at a time, between his teeth. “Tricky thing. Very tricky.”
“You’d better sit down,” said Bailey.
But O’Brien still did not move. He remained as motionless as the stone figures grouped around him. In the silence of the room, the notes of the doorbell sounded like single drops of water in a quiet pool, each one sending echoing ringlets of sound circling away from it.
“Who’s that?” said O’Brien tensely.
“Well, how the hell should I know?”
O’Brien moved; to massage his neck tenderly with his right hand. “Somebody calling on Yusuf, I suppose. But I think … yes, I think you’d better wait a few minutes, old man, if you don’t mind.”
“All right. Do you want a glass of water?”
“No. Yes. No … No, I’m all right. It’s only a temporary thing.” O’Brien’s fingers moved gently, thoughtfully; pressing upon another uneasy silence. In the stillness, out of the dimness beyond Johnny’s limited range of vision, came the sound of a door opening and a new voice, clear and resonant:
“Stay just where you are, please. I am a police officer.”
“… By God,” said O’Brien. “By God.” He looked towards Bailey, but his eyes seemed unable to focus; he screwed them up, and little murderous glints winked from within them. “I’ll get you for this, Michael.”
He took a step forward, lowering his arms to his sides … It was as though they went on dropping, as though their weight dragged his shoulders and whole body down with them. His legs crumpled with their motion; falling slowly, ridiculously slowly, he hit the tiled floor and lay very still beside the shattered fragments of the statue. Bailey, his lips curled back as though to stifle a shout, stepped hurriedly back and away; while out of the obscurity directly behind him stepped the uniformed policemen.
“Well,” said Emerald cheerfully. “We’ve got him, anyway.”
They had, but the scene was still one of considerable confusion. The room seemed full to overflowing with khaki-shirted constabulary; O’Brien lay on his back, breathing stertorously, while a concerned-looking Medical Officer knelt at his side. Bailey stood with his back to the wall. studying the tips of his fingers; by the door, Yusuf was talking animatedly to a fair-haired Military Policeman, whose hand rested vigilantly upon the Arab’s shoulder. Johnny and Emerald stood a little apart from the others, by the french windows, surveying the scene and conversing in hushed tones.
“… What the hell is this place, anyway, with all these tombstones lying about?”
“It belongs to that character by the door,” said Johnny. “One Yusuf. A sculptor by trade.”
“Um. The police captain here tells me of other activities, but I don’t see how that concerns us. Is he an old pal of O’Brien’s, or something?”
“Or something,” agreed Johnny. “… How did you get here? Did you keep tabs on Bailey?”
“Yes. Naturally.”
“Naturally. Nice work, anyway.”
“Thanks. What was the attraction?”
“Eh?”
“What made Bailey come here?”
“Well, we had a little blackmailing session.”
“Yes, I thought it might be something like that. What’s O’Brien holding over the boy?”
“I’m not sure. But I think he’s married to the sister.”
“What, to Margaret?”
“Yes. That was the name.”
“And …?”
“That’s all.”
“Well, yes. It might be enough. Caused her a lot of trouble, eh?”
“Nothing should surprise one less.”
“Um. A pleasant sort of fellow.”
“Oddly likeable,” said Johnny.
“Married to Margaret. Well, I’m blest. Whoever would have thought of that one?”
The Medical Officer was massaging O’Brien’s temples with smooth circular motions of his fingers. The police were now filing out of the room, taking Yusuf with them. Only the statues remained; the statues and Bailey, as silent as they.
Emerald walked over to peer at the figure on the floor. “You think you can revive him, doctor?”
“Yes. Oh yes. He’s coming round, slowly.”
“That’s fine. We can take him straight down to the ambulance, if you wish.”
“It won’t be necessary.” The Medical Officer raised a slightly flushed face, then returned to his exertions. “What I can’t … quite … see … is what the devil’s the matter with him. He really seems to be perfectly … It’s odd. It’s very odd.”
“We know all about it,” said Emerald gently. “You’re quite right; it’s a most unusual case. Back at base, our doctors will be able to cope.”
“I hope,” he added to Johnny.
“He certainly seems to need some special treatment.” said the M.O. “He responds so … very curiously.”
“Um,” said Emerald. Momentarily, his expression was compassionate; then he walked slowly towards the door, his chin lowered in thought. “Coming with us, Mike? he said, looking up. “Or running off to Bloodyville?”
Bailey stirred uneasily. “Am I free to go?”
“So far as I’m concerned.”
“I’ll … get back to Bloodyville, then.”
“Okay.” Emerald touched him lightly on the arm. “Sorry, you know. My job to do, and all that.”
“That’s all right,” said Bailey dully. “That’s all right,” he said again. Lugubriously, his cap perched on his head at an unconsciously flippant angle, he walked out. Emerald watched him go with some concern.
“He must be fond of his sister,” said Johnny.
“Yes. So you’d imagine. You’d better come with me, I think.”
“All right. Where?”
“Back to Bir Azahara.”
“For God’s sake,” said Johnny disgusted.
“Sorry. I really am. But Mr. Mitchell’d throw a dozen fits if I let you walk out now. Besides, I may be needing your help again.”
“You mean the race isn’t over?”
“Not by any means.”
They went out together, Emerald pausing at the door to give hurried but precise instructions to the military escort that stood waiting there; waiting for O’Brien’s recovery. Then they walked through the patio and out into the narrow street.
“Car at the corner,” said Emerald absently. “Cigarette?”
“Thanks,” said Johnny.
They paused to light up. From the dark windows of all the houses in the street, faces were watching them in silence. But the street itself was empty.
“Long time since I went on a police raid,” said Emerald, straightening his back. “The last one didn’t go too well, I remember.”
“Where was that?”
“Paris. In forty-seven. The time before that was at the Snowbound Club, down in Clarges Street. But I was on the receiving end that time … Disliked the things ever since.”
They walked on, not in haste. After a few moments, Emerald said:
“Care to give me your parole, old boy?”
“Do I have to?” demanded Johnny.<
br />
“No, of course not. Not once you’ve realised that that’s the way it is.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll hang around.” Johnny sighed. “All the same, I wish you could enlighten me a little as to exactly what goes on.”
“You know, I think I can, on my own responsibility. But you’ll have to wait till we get to Bir Azahara. Then,” promised Emerald, “I’ll spill what I dare of the beans.”
… The car was waiting in the palm-lined avenue.
Johnny took a long last look around him, before climbing into the back. Tripoli … It had been nice while it lasted …
7
In the Director’s office all was dark and silent. Dr. Wray, coming out of the bright evening sunlight into the shaded room, was for a moment unable to distinguish between the three figures seated within; he made his way across the room and sat down in a chair opposite the desk. He felt no overpowering urge for conversation - he was too tired; but nor, apparently, did any of the others. In the end, it was Mr. Mitchell who broke the silence.
“Well,” he said, “what’s the verdict?”
“It’s bad,” said Dr. Wray, and shook his head.
“How bad?”
“In my opinion, the fragment is in an unoperable position.”
The Director’s fingers rasped lightly over the wooden surface of his desk. “It can’t be,” he said gently. “I won’t allow that, you know. Have they taken the new röntgenograms?”
“Yes. They confirm our original suspicions, of course. And they show quite clearly that the fragment is lodged almost alongside the aortic arch. It would be a remarkably tricky business getting it out; would amount, practically, to a valvulotomy.” Wray spread out his fingers and looked at them dubiously. “The chances are heavily against his surviving the operation. Nine to one, I should say.”
“It has to come out,” said Mr. Mitchell, still in a tone of sweet reasonableness. “You know that it has to come out.”
