Gently Heartbroken

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Cartier shot Starnberg,’ Gently said. ‘But there’s a man bloodier than Cartier coming this way. He wants you dead, not alive, and if you don’t make a deal now dead is what you will be.’

  McGash waved the hump-backed automatic at him. ‘And you’d be for taking me alive?’ he said.

  ‘Preferably alive.’

  ‘Then you’re no bloody professional – whatever they reckon to you in London.’

  ‘And you,’ Gently said. ‘You’re such a professional?’

  ‘Don’t chance it with me, man,’ McGash said.

  ‘You go for the big one – snatch Barentin – and let a pair of amateurs take him off you?’

  ‘Geordie, I’m warning you,’ McGash said.

  ‘A fine professional,’ Gently said. ‘You trusted Hénault, let him get to a phone, and the third time set it up. A girl took you. A child could have done it. All your brains are in what you’re holding. You’re a professional gunman, McGash – take your weapon, and where are you?’

  McGash jumped up; his face was working. He held the gun at Gently’s head. The gun was trembling. For moments he stood there. The Arab was watching him with bright eyes. Then McGash struck a blow with the muzzle of the gun that set blood trickling down Gently’s cheek.

  ‘You London bastard – you thought I’d fall for it!’

  Gently held his hand to his face.

  Shaking slightly, McGash backed to the chair. He held the gun on Gently with both hands.

  ‘You’d better say your prayers, you bastard.’

  ‘McGash, this road is sealed at both ends.’

  ‘They’ll find a dead copper.’

  ‘You can’t get out. Either you deal or you’re finished.’

  ‘But first I settle with you, Geordie.’

  ‘Let the girl take your terms.’

  McGash half rose again from the chair. ‘Stop bloody telling me what to do!’

  He dumped down hard, sat glaring at Gently. Still the gun pointed at Gently’s head. Hajjar said something to McGash in Arabic: McGash snapped back in the same language. Frénaye was sitting with one leg drawn up, his hands pressed hard against the wall behind him.

  ‘You’re a clever boy,’ McGash said.

  Gently went on nursing his cheek.

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ McGash said. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Geordie. You’re just alive till I feel like pressing this trigger. I’d have killed you anyway, for Starnberg. But now killing you will be a pleasure. And you won’t know when, Geordie, you’re living by the minute. Any time at all I could be pulling this trigger.’

  ‘Like a gunman,’ Gently said. ‘Did they teach you nothing?’

  ‘This minute,’ McGash said. ‘Or the next. So I’ve lost Barentin, the man says, but who have I got now waiting for a bullet?’

  Gently nursed his cheek.

  ‘But,’ McGash said, ‘when I’m ready. No bastard from London teaches me my job. I can use you, Geordie, but that’s my affair, and don’t think it will get you off the hook.’

  ‘Why not ask Yousef?’ Gently said. ‘He isn’t in it just for the cash.’

  ‘You can forget Yousef,’ McGash said. ‘He likes killing. He can’t wait.’

  ‘But at least,’ Gently said, ‘he’s killing in a cause, has got people back there he thinks he’s serving. That makes him different from a hired gun sweating on loot in an Aden bank.’

  The M52 was trembling again.

  ‘You’ll talk yourself dead,’ McGash said.

  Gently hunched, stared at him, flicked a little blood from his face.

  ‘Monsieur, with respect,’ Frénaye said. ‘Is the money indeed not intended for yourself?’

  ‘Belt-up, Frog!’ McGash snapped. ‘You’re nothing, and you’ll soon be less.’

  ‘I cannot help enquiring, monsieur,’ Frénaye said, ‘when you take such risks at other people’s bidding. No doubt their gratitude will be profound, but may it not extend to a share of the takings?’

  For an instant McGash’s gun swung to Frénaye, and Gently tensed himself for a jump. Then he caught the Arab’s glittering eye. McGash’s gun swung back.

  ‘I don’t have to spell it out for you crap.’

  ‘If monsieur feels the issue is too sensitive . . .’

  ‘Listen,’ McGash said, ‘you’re dead ducks, both of you, there’s ways of killing you wouldn’t believe. Just pray I’m in a hurry, just pray for that. You’ll find I know how to do what I’m paid for.’

  ‘What you’re paid for,’ Gently said. ‘Hired, paid.’

  ‘So who isn’t paid,’ McGash said. ‘What are you paid for?’

  ‘You kill, take your pay,’ Gently said. ‘And pray that other men aren’t like you.’

  McGash was breathing hard. His sunken eyes were jacked wide; the thin mouth hung open, showing teeth. He stared first at one, then the other: the muzzle of the M52 was wavering.

  ‘You bastard,’ he said. ‘You bastard. What I’m doing is a political thing.’

  ‘Not you,’ Gently said. ‘You’re criminal. Politics end where crime begins.’

  ‘I’m political,’ McGash said. ‘My bloody crimes are political.’

  ‘Just bloody,’ Gently said. ‘You can’t have it both ways. A murderer for Christ is still a murderer, no longer a hero, no longer a politician.’

  ‘Tell the Arabs that,’ McGash said. ‘Where I come from they call me a hero.’

  ‘And you can believe them?’ Gently said. ‘You can worship your image, wish society was made up of such men as you?’

  ‘It would be free,’ McGash said. ‘A free society.’

  ‘Just the jungle,’ Gently said.

  ‘I’m bloody telling you,’ McGash said. ‘Bloody telling you.’

  Gently dabbed his cheek, said nothing.

  ‘Monsieur,’ Frénaye said. ‘In this there is truth, that society coheres because of honest men.’

  McGash glared furiously at him, but the gun was level again in his hand. All this time the Arab had lounged nonchalantly, perhaps unable to follow the English. Once, beyond the door to the wood shed, there had been a faint scuffle, as though someone had stumbled over a solid object. Then silence. The door was substantial, secured top and bottom by rusty bolts.

  ‘You haven’t too much time, McGash,’ Gently said.

  ‘If you want to die,’ McGash said. ‘Open your trap once more. I’m not taking it, Geordie, I’ve heard enough. I’ll be shutting you up one way or another.’

  ‘Then you’re finished.’

  ‘Shut your trap!’

  ‘If you kill me you kill yourself,’ Gently said. ‘You won’t be tucked up in a security prison waiting for some of your colleagues to spring you. That’s out. Get rid of me, and you’ll be cut down like a dog.’

  ‘After you, Geordie, there’s two to go.’

  ‘You’re not reading me, McGash,’ Gently said. ‘I’m a card you’ve got to play now, because a few hours more will be too late. There’s a man who’s sworn to have you. He doesn’t give a damn for any hostage. You could have had Barentin on the end of a gun and he’d have blasted you just the same. Either you deal now or you’re dead, and I’m the only trump in your hand.’

  McGash stared with narrowed eyes. ‘Is that so, Geordie?’ he said. ‘And who might he be, this bold chiel, who’ll come hunting for a quick bullet?’

  ‘Never mind his name,’ Gently said. ‘I’ve been holding him off you, McGash. I’m still holding him off you, but it can’t be for long now. You’re trapped. The local police know I’m here. Soon they’ll be sending in men. And then he’ll come, and the shooting will start, and whoever lives you’re going to die.’

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ McGash said.

  ‘Don’t make that mistake.’

  ‘I’m thinking you’re a cunning devil,’ McGash said.

  ‘What you’ve got to do, and do quickly, is to send the girl out with your terms.’

  ‘Aye, to bring in your bogeyman!’ McGash said savagely. ‘The
re’s still time to deal with the local police.’

  ‘And I’m saying it’s trickery.’

  Gently shrugged, dabbed again at his bloody cheek.

  McGash sat gazing for a while, then snapped a remark at Hajjar. There was a rapid interchange between them, at times almost an argument. Finally the Arab nodded once or twice and gestured with lean shoulders. Never once had his eyes moved from the two men seated on the floor.

  ‘Right,’ McGash said. ‘So where’s your car, Geordie?’

  ‘Up the road,’ Gently said. ‘Partly disabled.’

  ‘It fetched you here,’ McGash said. ‘It’ll do. It’ll take a man on to the junction.’

  ‘A man,’ Gently said.

  McGash laughed unpleasantly. ‘Did you think I’d be jumping to your orders, Geordie? Man, I’d sooner trust a nest of scorpions. It’s the Frog who’ll be carrying the terms.’

  ‘Let the girl go,’ Gently said. ‘She’s taken enough.’

  ‘I’m telling you,’ McGash said. ‘There’s a score to settle there.’

  ‘Let her go. If you want them to listen.’

  ‘They’ll listen,’ McGash said. ‘Oh yes, they’ll listen.’ He rose. ‘On your face, Geordie boy.’

  Gently stared at him, then obeyed.

  ‘Up, you,’ McGash said to Frénaye. ‘And don’t waste your time trying to jump Dusty.’

  Frénaye left with the Arab. Time passed; then one heard the Marina’s engine. It cut. Frénaye returned, his hand to an angry welt on his jaw.

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ McGash said.

  ‘Monsieur, the radiator must be filled with water.’

  ‘So down beside Geordie,’ McGash said. ‘We’ll let Dusty take care of that.’

  The radiator was filled.

  ‘Now, Froggie,’ McGash said. ‘This is what you’ll be telling the police. I’m wanting a car with a full tank, an escort, and a plane standing by at Wick airport. I’m wanting them now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘At six p.m. I’ll be shooting a hostage. Are you hearing me, Froggie?’

  ‘Clearly, monsieur,’ Frénaye said. ‘At six p.m. you are shooting a hostage.’

  ‘Don’t forget that,’ McGash said. ‘Whatever else. And here’s the rest of the message, Froggie. The money agreed is to be paid over, and deposit confirmed at Algiers airport.’

  ‘A hostage to be shot,’ Frénaye said. ‘And money paid over.’

  ‘You’ve learned your lesson,’ McGash said. ‘Now on your way. And listen, Froggie – you’re the lucky one. Show your face here again and you’ll stop a bullet.’

  ‘Monsieur . . .?’ Frénaye said to Gently.

  ‘Do it,’ Gently said. ‘Inform Superintendent Sinclair.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ Frénaye said. ‘I shall do my best.’

  ‘Up,’ McGash said. ‘You’ll do just what you’re told.’

  The Marina drove off and Yousef returned.

  ‘Let’s see your face, Geordie,’ McGash said. ‘My, that’s a nasty cut, I’m thinking it could use a couple of stitches.’

  Gently said nothing.

  ‘You’re quiet, man,’ McGash said. ‘Where are all those fine words you were dinning in my lugs?’

  ‘That man is too dumb, I think,’ the Arab said. ‘Perhaps I am loosening his tongue, just a little?’

  ‘Ach no,’ McGash said. ‘That’s nasty. It’s a bullet or nothing for a man like Geordie.’ He laughed. ‘He’s a man of compassion, that’s what Geordie boy is. I’m thinking he’ll like to break the news to the girl that she’s for the chop in a couple of hours.’

  Gently said nothing.

  ‘Open the door,’ McGash said. ‘I’ve had a gutful of his ugly face.’

  Yousef shot the bolts of the door to the wood shed; they kicked him through it, into darkness.

  ELEVEN

  THE FLOOR OF the wood shed was at a lower level than the floor of the kitchen. Gently stumbled forward and sprawled headlong into a great pile of wood chumps. The door slammed and was bolted. Light now came only through cracks; the darkness was charged with the sweet smell of sawn pine. He sensed movement near him.

  ‘Monsieur . . .? George . . .?’

  ‘Gabrielle . . .!’

  What motion of theirs was it that brought them together? He could never decide: just that suddenly they were clasped as one, scarcely able to breathe. And at the same moment the situation became one of pure fantasy: it was laughable: the darkness was sun: the people beyond the door mouthing puppets. Perhaps that was why she was crying, why he was crying too.

  ‘George . . .!’

  ‘Gabrielle . . .!’

  ‘George . . .!’

  What else in the universe was there to say? Well, something else. After a while she found out what it was.

  ‘George . . . I’m in such a mess.’

  As if that could matter, ever.

  ‘I haven’t washed . . .’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘I’m sure I smell—’

  He simply kissed her.

  ‘Ahhh! Then you still love me?’

  How could she be so absurd? The word was a meaningless label that had ceased to apply to their condition. To love there must be two: in that moment they had gone beyond it. Yet, there must be words.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Those pigs have knocked me about . . . and I’m filthy!’

  ‘Nothing else . . .?’

  ‘Oh . . . no. Didn’t you know? Those bastards are queers.’ She gave a little laugh that was almost a sob.

  ‘Are you much hurt?’

  ‘Just bruises. And a black eye, if you could see it. But you?’

  ‘Only a scratch.’

  ‘Oh my dear.’ She hugged him to her.

  ‘Gabrielle, why did you do it?’

  ‘Ha! It was not for that blackguard Henri. You do not think that?’

  ‘I could have rescued Barentin, probably had that pair behind bars.’

  ‘George, I had to do it myself.’

  ‘Gabrielle, it was a rash gesture.’

  ‘Oh my dear, you do not understand. I had to do it before . . . before . . .’ She hid her face against his chest.

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘Oh yes . . . oh yes. For you. To cleanse myself of so much. How else could I come to you, I who betrayed you in my acts, in my heart?’

  ‘You did none of these things.’

  ‘But yes. Till this very moment I am betraying you. Back there at the ruin, when we heard your car coming, I could not conceal from them my feelings. So they set an ambush. Then again here I am the foolish bait for their trap. I believed them when they said they were leaving me and, when I heard you, called out. After these things, how can you love me?’

  ‘These things are nothing.’

  ‘To me, how much!’

  ‘Between us there can be no debts.’

  ‘Oh George, hate me, but do not cease to love.’

  She sobbed for a time. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. He could see she was wearing a soiled anorak, sweater, muddy slacks. He turned her face up to his. Her cheeks were smeared with dirt and tears. One eye was black and almost closed. Very softly he kissed it.

  ‘A brave girl.’

  ‘Those pigs. Oh George, I’m ugly.’

  ‘Only beautiful.’

  ‘This isn’t the way that I was planning it at all. I wanted to be fresh from a bath, all scented and seductive. I wished to destroy you with my body, my friend, till there was nothing you would not forgive me. Do you not recall our private room at Honfleur?’

  ‘I recall our private room.’

  ‘That evening, my friend, I bathed like some mad woman and used every aid in my repertoire. Yet I was not late?’

  ‘You were waiting for me.’

  ‘I feared that my haste would bring on a sweat. In that lounge bar I was on pins to get you away to our room. Was I not beautiful then?’

  ‘Beautiful then, more beautiful now.’

&nb
sp; ‘Ha, do not flatter, my friend.’

  ‘I do not flatter,’ Gently said.

  She turned away. ‘I have been in that corner and I had nothing with which to wipe. And am I still beautiful?’

  ‘You are still beautiful.’

  ‘Oh my friend. Love me, love me!’

  Through the door, dulled sounds of movements, occasional unintelligible exchanges. Other than the heap of chumps the wood shed contained nothing but some empty shelves. Wouldn’t there have been an axe? Probably removed. The chumps were old, had bark that was peeling. Walls, roof were of solid planks fastened to hefty framing and rafters.

  Gabrielle shuddered. ‘My love, I was listening. I heard what was said behind that door.’

  ‘Bluff,’ Gently said. ‘McGash wouldn’t dare do it. He’s been in these situations before.’

  ‘Beloved . . . if I must . . . I think I can die.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Gently said. He held her from him. ‘If McGash loses you, he’s left only with me, and I’m his passport to Algiers and the cash. Then he’ll be in a situation of stalemate and the police will only have to wait him out. So he can threaten, but that’s all. If he loses you, he loses the game.’

  ‘But . . . if he still has you?’

  ‘He can’t use me. I have to stay alive until Algiers. The police will know that threats against me are empty and they will simply sit tight. With you, he hopes to win a battle of nerves, but if his bluff is called he’s lost.’

  She shuddered afresh. ‘It is logical, but . . .’

  ‘Unfortunately there is another factor.’

  ‘How—?’

  He told her about Empton. She listened, leaning heavy in his arms.

  ‘He will not care if we die?’

  ‘He will not care.’

  ‘Look at me, my love,’ Gabrielle said. ‘It is worth it. I have died once already. To die now in your arms will be for me a great happiness.’

  ‘There will be no dying,’ Gently said. ‘McGash doesn’t want to die. He knows now that his bluff must succeed quickly or he will have to surrender to Sinclair. And Sinclair’s no mug. He’ll see through the bluff, keep stringing McGash along. And in the end McGash will break and go for the better option.’

  ‘My friend, that man enjoys killing.’

  ‘He also enjoys living,’ Gently said.