“I think so, too,” Manville said.
“Do you want to tell me where you’re keeping yourselves?”
“Down on the Gold Coast.”
“Good God. Can you stand it?”
“For a while,” Manville said.
“Then you’ll have to stand it for the weekend,” Brevizin told him. “There’s nothing more to be done today. I’ll talk to some people, look into the situation. Assuming I don’t run across anything that suggests you’re a really accomplished liar and fantasist, you should ring me Monday morning at…eleven o’clock.”
“I will. Do you want to meet Kim? She’s three blocks from here, in one of the street cafes on the Mall.”
“Monday will do,” Brevizin told him. “I’ll probably want you to bring her with you then.”
“She wanted to make a phone call of her own,” Manville said. “To this guy Jerry Diedrich, from Planetwatch. They have an office down in Sydney, she thinks she can find him through there. I said I’d ask you, and she’ll call him if you say okay.”
“I don’t see why not,” Brevizin said, “if only on the concept that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Diedrich is unlikely to betray either of you to Richard Curtis.”
“Very unlikely,” Manville agreed.
“And Planetwatch,” Brevizin went on, “no matter how much they might irritate my clients and me in other contexts, they do have an organization and they might be of help to you.” Brevizin rose, and reached across the coffee table to shake Manville’s hand. “Keep out of sight over the weekend,” he advised, “and ring me Monday.”
“I will. And thank you, Mr. Brevizin, you’ve given me hope.”
“Not too much hope, please,” Brevizin cautioned. “Not yet.”
7
Kim sat over her second cappuccino, now long cold, and watched the pedestrians surge endlessly by. It was as though two giant machines, just out of sight, one at each end of the Mall, kept spewing these people out, in their amazing diversity, and sent them striding or strolling forward along the Mall, finally to be gobbled up again by the machine at the other end, altered into new sizes and shapes, and pushed back out to do the same thing the other way.
The Mall was two long blocks of Queen Street, here in the heart of Brisbane, where motor traffic was not permitted. Stores and restaurants filled the buildings along the way, upstairs as well as down, and spilled out into open-air cafes like the one where Kim sat and waited for George to finish with the lawyer. Shoppers and tourists and simple strollers filled the Mall from end to end, as crowded and noisy and lively as the streets of the Gold Coast, but more upscale.
Kim wondered how much longer George would be. He’d left her forty Australian dollars, so she could go on ordering cappuccino forever, but that lost its charm eventually. Also, the Ace bandage, around her torso again, was beginning to feel too tight, and starting to itch; she’d love to be back in the little room in Surfers Paradise, comfortably naked. With George. She sighed, looked around at the people at the other tables here in the cafe—couples or families, she the only single—then looked out again at the schools of passersby, and saw the killer.
It was him. He walked with two other men she’d never seen before, he in the middle, talking intently, they listening intently, and she recognized him at once. She’d never forget that man, or how he’d looked when he’d taunted George, asking if he could shoot a human being, saying George couldn’t do it, and then George did it.
Of course he’s here. Brisbane is where the Mallory was coming, and the Mall is where everybody in Brisbane walks sooner or later. But why now? Why not half an hour from now, when I’m gone from here?
Kim looked down at her trembling hands in her lap, hoping to seem like someone searching in a handbag for a tissue or change or whatever, hoping the man would just keep moving by, keep on with his intense conversation, pay no attention to the world around him, and when she looked up she stared directly into his eyes. The three of them had stopped out there, like a rocky island in the sea of pedestrians, and they were all staring at her.
Everybody moved at once. The killer shouted something to the other two, pointed at Kim, and the three leaped forward, at the same instant that Kim jumped to her feet, knocked over her chair behind her, turned to her right, and ran.
Through the tables, through the tables, breathlessly apologizing to the people seated there, afraid to look back. Hedged planters marked the boundary of the cafe, with a narrow space between two. Too narrow; something plucked at the wraparound skirt, tried to pull it off her. She clutched at bunches of skirt at both hips and kept running.
Now she looked back and they were farther away, but still chasing her. They’d had to go around the planters, but they were moving fast, and they were big enough to simply knock people out of their way, while Kim had to duck and dodge around the strollers.
The Myer Centre. She ran in, snaking around shoppers laden with bags, nearly bowling over a girl trying to offer a perfume sample, dodging to the left only because the aisle ahead was too clogged.
She wanted to call for help, but who would understand? What would she say? She didn’t have time to think, only to run.
They were back there, behind her, two in the same aisle as her, one coming faster along a more open aisle to the right. One of them was shouting; the killer, straight behind her, he was waving his fist and shouting.
“Stop! Stop! Stop, thief! She stole my wallet! Stop her!”
No, no, that’s ridiculous, that isn’t real. But it is real. And if somebody were to stop her, hold her for them, they’d finish her off before she could explain. And already people were reaching for her, wide-eyed and astonished but with clutching hands to stop the running girl.
An exit. She had to get out of here, outside, away from confinement, narrow aisles, too many bodies. Brushing aside the hands that tried to hold her, she hurtled out the exit onto some different street, not the Mall at all, but a regular street with traffic through which she ran heedless, while astonished drivers slammed on their brakes and blared their horns.
An alley. It was Elizabeth Arcade, running between Elizabeth and Charlotte Streets, though she didn’t know that. She ran into it, past a hamburger restaurant called Parrot’s on her right and a sign for an upstairs vegetarian restaurant called Govinda’s on her left, and straight down the arcade.
Another look over her shoulder. They were still back there, still running hard, the killer still shouting his horrible absurd demand.
The end of the arcade. She veered left, because that way there were fewer people in her path. She ran, leaving a sea of startled faces in her wake, and at the next corner there was a crowded bus just taking on passengers, the last man pressing in, pushing himself on, the door about to close.
Kim ran full tilt into the bus, slamming into the last man’s back, shoving a whole phalanx of people deeper into the bus ahead of her, as the door snicked shut behind her, and the bus moved away from the curb. She ignored the comments and the dirty looks, ignored the crush, and managed to twist around just enough to look over her shoulder, out the window. They had stopped back there, panting, holding their sides, moving together to confer.
The bus was so crowded she had no opportunity to pay before it stopped again, not far enough along this street.
She jumped backward to the curb the instant the door opened, spun around, looked only straight ahead, and ran.
Two blocks later, out of breath, she slowed to a walk, and looked back, and they were gone. She stopped. She’d lost them.
And herself. Slowly catching her breath, she looked around at this new street. She hadn’t the slightest idea where she was.
8
She wasn’t there.
Manville double-checked, walked both ways along the Mall, frowning at the people at the tables in other open-air cafes, and she was at none of them. He’d been right the first time; there was where he’d left her, at that table in the middle of that particular cafe, where the young couple now gigg
led together like the newlyweds they no doubt were.
Where was she? She wouldn’t just leave. That didn’t seem right. Did something spook her?
Whatever had happened, there was nothing for Manville to do but wait here. Wherever Kim had gone, she would certainly come back to this spot to find him.
There was an empty table in the second row. He took it, waited a couple of minutes for the waiter to arrive, ordered a cappuccino, then looked off to the right, the long way down the Mall. All those bobbing heads, all those people, in random movement, no rhythm, no pattern. Would Kim suddenly appear among them?
Movement made him turn his head, and there was now somebody seated next to him. He was in his forties, heavyset, a bruiser with a large round head, thick bone above his eyebrows, a broken nose. Manville had never seen him before, but he knew at once that this man was connected to the killers on the ship. And that something bad had happened to Kim.
The man leaned forward, as though he wanted to deliver a secret. “George Manville,” he said.
Manville looked carefully at him. The man’s large bony hands rested on the table, empty. He didn’t act threatening, he was just there. “Yes,” Manville said.
The man nodded. “If you look out there,” he said, his voice raspy but soft, his accent showing him to be a local, “you’ll see a fella that isn’t walking. He’s looking at you. He’s got his hands in the pockets of kind of a big raincoat.”
Manville looked. “I see him.” It was another stranger, cut from the same cloth as this one.
The man said, “If I stand up and walk away from this table, and you don’t stand up and follow me, that bloke’s gonna take a machine pistol out of his pocket and blow your head off. And probably a few other heads around here, too. He’s got rotten aim.”
Manville said, “Where’s Kim?”
The man smiled. “You wanna talk to her? Come along.”
“She’s all right?”
“Sure,” the man said. “Just a little out of breath, that’s all.”
Manville had no idea what he meant by that, except that Kim must still alive. “I’ll go with you,” he said.
“I thought that’s what you were gonna decide,” the man said, and patted the table. “Leave some loot for the waiter, there’s a good chap.”
Manville did as he was told, and the man stood and walked away, without a backward glance. Manville got to his feet and followed, aware of the other man trailing along behind.
Down at the end of the Mall, on the corner with George Street, stopped illegally at the curb was a large black Daimler limousine. The man ahead of Manville walked directly to it and opened the curbside rear door. “Get in,” he said.
Manville did, and the man followed him, as Manville saw, seated in the rear of the limo, the leader of the killers from the ship. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man with the machine pistol get in the front, next to a liveried chauffeur.
Manville was in the middle of the rear seat, the leader to his left, the other man to his right. Kim wasn’t here.
The chauffeur started the Daimler purring away from the curb, and the leader smiled at Manville’s profile, not in a friendly way. “And now,” he said, “the rematch.”
9
Morgan Pallifer liked the way things were going. He was closer to Richard Curtis, more important to Curtis, than he had ever been. He had the use of this nice Daimler belonging to Curtis, that even came with a chauffeur hired by Curtis, who knew to do what he was told and keep his mouth shut. He had a nice wad of cash from Curtis, enough to keep him going for months, with more to come, a lot more. And now, three or four days ahead of schedule, he had his hands on George Manville.
Oh, he would have gotten Manville anyway, that wasn’t a problem. Curtis’s people were watching the banks, and no later than Monday he’d have known where Manville and the girl were hiding out. He’d still know, come Monday, and the way things were, he’d probably find the girl there. She’d lost Pallifer and his new pals, that was true, but she’d also lost Manville, and what else would she do but go back to whatever mouse hole they’d been hiding in, to wait for her protector to return? Where else could she go? Nowhere. So she’d most likely still be there, wherever it was, hoping for the best, when Pallifer and his friends dropped by to scoop her up on Monday.
But for now, he had the more important one, he had Manville. Curtis had wanted Manville alive, at least temporarily, at least if it wouldn’t be too much trouble; the girl he simply wanted gotten rid of, so that could happen at any time. Curtis would be very pleased to know that Manville was already in their hands.
Pallifer was pleased, too. The events on the Mallory still rankled. He and Arn had had to finish off Bardo and Frank, both wounded by Manville. He’d told Curtis that it was Manville who’d killed them, because you never tell anybody you did some killing, but in fact Manville had left the two of them alive but useless. Pallifer couldn’t carry them, couldn’t nurse them, couldn’t fix Frank’s broken bones or dig that bullet out of Bardo. He had no more use for them, so what could he do but drop them into the sea, once that miserable Chink captain came slinking down to see what was what and finally agreed to untie him and Arn?
Which was why he’d had to go around among people he knew, people he’d been connected with in the past, to find new partners. Arn had got spooked out there on the Mallory, and didn’t want any more of this job, so he was out, and these new fellas were in. Steve on the other side of Manville, and Raf up front. Pallifer had already worked with both of them more than once, and knew he could count on them.
And now, after he brought them aboard, the job was turning out so simple and easy, he barely needed them at all. Already he had Manville, and the girl was such a piece of cake he could almost send a cabdriver to pick her up. In fact, maybe that was the thing to do. Make Manville write a note, send it with a cabby, pop the girl in privacy and comfort, at Pallifer’s leisure.
Well, that was the pleasure for next week. For now, as the chauffeur purred them out of downtown, skirting Albert Park, heading out Musgrave Road to leave Brisbane toward the west, Pallifer reached forward to the black leather pouch mounted on the side panel behind the door, took out the cellphone, and called Richard Curtis at the hotel. He got a secretary, who said Curtis was out. “Tell him it’s Morgan,” Pallifer said. “Tell him I took early delivery on that package he wanted. I’m bringing it out to the ranch.”
“He’ll know what this is about?”
“Oh, yes,” Pallifer said, and winked at the stolid-faced Manville next to him on the wide seat. “He’ll be happy at the news,” he assured the secretary, and broke the connection, and twisted around a bit more to look at Manville head on. “Give me your ear, you,” he said.
Manville didn’t react at all, so Pallifer poked him in the chest with a hard finger. “And give me your eye, too, while you’re at it,” he said.
Now Manville did look at him, and once again Pallifer was startled for just a second by how cold and deadly those eyes could look. But then he caught himself, he reminded himself who was in charge here now, and he grinned into those eyes as he said, “I’m about to tell you what’s happening here.”
Manville said, “Where’s Kim?”
“Oh, Kim is it? The hero’s been getting his reward, has he? Hear that, Steve? The hero’s been getting his reward.”
Steve was looking out his side window at the passing bustle of Brisbane, not interested in the conversation. So Pallifer quit his grinning, and said to Manville, “She run away from us. Would you believe that? She run away clean, but that’s why we knew you’d show up at the same place.”
“Oh,” Manville said, and turned to look at the back of Steve’s head. “That’s why you said she was out of breath.”
Steve turned to give Manville his own cold look. “I’m done with talk for today,” he said, and turned aside, and looked out the window some more.
Pallifer said, “Steve isn’t your social type. Steve is more your killer type. A
nd the situation is, Mr. Curtis asked Steve and Raf and me to collect you and Kim—Kim? is that it?—yeah, Kim. To collect you and Kim, because he misses you. He said to me, he said, ‘Morgan, that George Manville is a right smart engineer, I could use his brains some more, so would you just collect him and bring him to me, so we can let bygones be bygones?’ And I said, ‘Mr. Curtis, I will. But what if it turns out this Manville makes trouble?’ And you know how he is, Mr. Curtis, you know how he talks. He just shrugged, you know how he does, and he said, ‘Oh, if he makes trouble, kill him.’ Now, you know I’m not lying to you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Manville said.
“And this isn’t a lie, either,” Pallifer told him. “You pestered me out on that ship, you truly did. I didn’t like it, and I must say I don’t like you. Now I know Mr. Curtis would like it better if you didn’t make any trouble, but I’d like it better if you did. You follow me?”
“I won’t make trouble,” Manville said.
“Well, that’s a shame,” Pallifer told him, “although it will make Mr. Curtis’s day. Now, we got about four hundred miles to travel, so just you take it easy, don’t do any scheming with that bright brain of yours, and everything will be okay.”
Apparently, Manville believed him. To Pallifer’s astonishment, the son of a bitch folded his arms, put his head back, shifted his body around into a more comfortable position on the seat, and closed his eyes.
* * *
It was more than four hundred miles, though not many more, all of it almost perfectly due west. Out of the city of Brisbane, they stayed on route 54 past Ipswich and Toowoomba, on the rim of the Great Dividing Range, and on to Dalby, where they left the main road for the almost as big Route 49, dipping slightly south to run across the Darling Downs, the great fertile flatlands, boring but fecund, with mile after mile of cotton and wheat, sprawling ranches, tiny towns, huge sky.
Twice they stopped for everyone to walk off into the fields to relieve themselves, both times with Manville where the others could keep a close eye on him. At St. George, with darkness just creeping up behind them, the sun out in front of them floating downward toward the broken line of hills to the west, they stopped to refuel, again giving Manville no opportunity to make a move unseen.
Forever and a Death Page 13
