Hell Is Too Crowded v5)

by Jack Higgins

  She sat down hesitantly, looking rather unsure of herself. "Mr. Brady, you won't know me. My name is Anne Dunning."

  Brady frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

  "You knew my father, Harry Dunning," she said. "I believe you worked together on the Zembe Dam in Brazil."

  Brady's eyes widened and he leaned forward. "So you're Harry Dunning's daughter. How is he? I haven't heard from him since we parted company in New York after finishing the Zembe job. Didn't he go to Guatemala?"

  She nodded, hands twisting her purse nervously. "He's dead, Mr. Brady. Died in Coban six weeks ago after a bad fall."

  Brady was genuinely shocked. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said awkwardly. "Your father was a good friend of mine."

  "That's exactly what he said about you," she said. "I flew out as soon as word reached me of his accident. I was with him for two days before he died. He'd heard about your trouble. He told me you could never have done such a thing. That you must have been telling the truth. He said you once saved his life."

  "It's nice to know that somebody believed me," Brady said.

  She opened her purse and took out an oldfashioned silver watch and chain. She held it close to the gauze screen so that he could examine it. "He wanted you to have this. He asked me to see that you got it personally. I suppose I could give it to the governor to put with your other things."

  He shook his head gently. "It's no use to me here. You keep it for me."

  "Would you really like me to?" she said.

  He nodded. "I might be out of this place sooner than you think, then you'll be able to give it to me personally."

  She slipped the watch back into her purse and leaned forward. "But I understand they'd turned down your appeal?"

  "Oh, I've got a few things working for me." He smiled, dismissing the subject. "Tell me about yourself? How did you know where to find me?"

  "There was a bit in the newspapers when they moved you," she said. "I'm with a show playing Manningham Hippodrome this week. It seemed like a good opportunity. I telephoned the governor this morning and he said it would be all right."

  "How's business?" he said.

  She grimaced. "Terrible. We're supposed to be on a twelve-week run of the provinces, but I think we'll fold on Saturday night." She sighed. "I really thought I'd got a break this time. A good second lead and three solo spots, but that's show business for you."

  "I'd give a hell of a lot to be sitting slap in the middle of the front row tonight when you come on," Brady said.

  Her eyes crinkled at the corners and she smiled warmly. "And I'd give a lot to have you there, Mr. Brady. I think my father was right. Do you think they'll let me come and see you again before I leave Manningham?"

  He shook his head. "I'm afraid not, but you could write."

  "I'd like to do that," she said. "I'll let you have my London address."

  The duty officer touched him on the shoulder and Brady stood up. For a moment she just stood there, looking at him through the gauze and it was as if she wanted to speak, but couldn't find the words. She turned abruptly and went out and he followed the duty officer down to the dining-hall, thinking about her all the way.

  When they paused for a smoke back on the job that afternoon, Evans quizzed him about her. "Who was she, son? I hear she looked pretty good."

  "Is there anything you don't hear?" Brady demanded.

  Evans grinned. "If there is, it isn't worth knowing."

  Before Brady could think of a suitable reply, the whistle blew signifying the end of work for the day and they packed up and started to descend the scaffolding.

  There was a press of men jammed together on the narrow platform which spanned the scaffolding at the third storey. Brady was at the front and as he started to turn to go down the ladder backwards to the next level, a hand shoved him violently in the small of the back.

  He went head first into space with a cry of fear and then someone grabbed at his denim jacket, jerking him to one side. His hands fastened over a length of scaffolding and he hung there for a moment before scrambling to safety under the rail.

  The whole incident had taken place in a second and the majority of the men hadn't even noticed it. Brady leaned against the rail and wiped sweat from his face as Evans pushed through the crowd towards him. "I've never moved faster," he said.

  "Did you see how it happened?" Brady asked.

  Evans shook his head. "There was a hell of a push back there at the top of the ladder. Everyone was in such an all-fired hurry to get down."

  "I guess I was lucky you were on hand," Brady told him.

  But the thought stayed with him, the niggling doubt. A hand had pressed him squarely in the small of the back and pushed outwards into space, of that he was certain. But why? He had made no enemies and his friendship with Evans alone assured him of a privileged position amongst the other prisoners.

  He thought about discussing it with Evans, but decided to let it go. He had more important things on his mind. Much more important.

  That one omission proved almost fatal. On the following morning, just before noon, he was working on the third-storey catwalk welding a fractured pipe. Behind him, bricks were hauled by hand in a canvas bucket to the fourth storey.

  It was pure chance that saved him. He pushed back his goggles to pause for a breather, and out of the corner of one eye, caught a quick flash of something coming towards him. He dropped flat on his face, and the loaded bucket swung lazily out into space over the end of the catwalk, and back again.

  He glanced up as it was hauled over the edge of the catwalk above him by a tall, swarthy individual with a broken nose and dark, curling hair. The man returned his gaze calmly for a moment and then walked away.

  Brady went up the scaffolding hand-over-hand to the fourth storey, where he found Evans welding angle irons in one of the half-completed rooms at the north end of the building.

  The old man pushed up his goggles and grinned. "Time out for a smoke?"

  "Someone just tried to make me take a dive off the third storey," Brady told him.

  Evans stood up slowly. "You sure?"

  "It's the second time in two days," Brady said. "That business at the top of the ladder yesterday afternoon was no accident."

  "Got any ideas?" the old man asked.

  Brady nodded. "Come outside and I'll show you."

  The man with the broken nose was loading a wheelbarrow with bricks at the other end of the catwalk.

  Evans frowned. "That's Jango Sutton. Fancies himself as a bit of a tearaway. Doing a seven-stretch for robbery with violence. Clobbered a seventy-year-old nightwatchman with an iron bar. A real hard man," he added sarcastically.

  "He looks like a foreigner," Brady observed.

  Evans shook his head. "He's a diddy-coy--a gipsy. Lives here in Manningham as far as I know. Married a local girl."

  "I'd like to know who put him up to it."

  Evans nodded grimly. "That's easily handled. You get him in here and leave the rest to me."

  Sutton wheeled the load of bricks along the catwalk and they went back inside the room and waited. As the gipsy passed the doorway, Brady reached out, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and pulled him inside with such force that Sutton staggered across the room and hit the opposite wall.

  "Here, what's the bloody game?" he demanded, getting to his feet.

  "You've tried to make me take a dive twice in two days," Brady said. "I want to know why."

  "Get stuffed!" Sutton replied and ran for the door.

  Evans stuck out a foot and tripped him and the gipsy sprawled on his face. As he twisted and started to get up again, Evans shoved him down with one foot and squatted beside him, the blow-torch in one hand. He adjusted the flame until the steel tip glowed whitehot and grinned wolfishly.

  "We only want you to be reasonable, Jango."

  The gipsy licked his thick lips and gazed in fascinated horror at the tongue of flame. "You wouldn't dare."

  "But I'll be doing
you a favour," Evans said. "Five seconds of this on your kisser and you'll be able to put Boris Karloff out of business when you get out. They won't need to make you up."

  "You're mad!" Sutton said and his voice cracked slightly.

  "I will be if you don't tell us what we want to know," Evans told him and suddenly, his voice was cold and hard and utterly ruthless. "You'd better start talking, boy. Who put you up to giving my pal here a push off the catwalk?"

  Sutton shook his head from side to side and tried to crawl away backwards. Evans grabbed him by the shirtfront with his free hand and advanced the torch.

  Sutton struggled madly, his face contorted with fear. "I'll tell you," he said hysterically. "It was Wilma--my wife. She came to see me yesterday morning. Told me there was five hundred nicker for me if I saw that Brady met with an accident. An extra twofifty if it happened by Sunday."

  Brady stood in the doorway, one eye on the catwalk outside in case a screw turned up. "Who put her up to it?" he demanded urgently.

  "I don't know," Sutton replied. "She wouldn't tell me."

  "He's lying," Brady said. "It doesn't make sense."

  Evans pulled Sutton upright and held the torch so that the heat started to singe the gipsy's black hair. "It's the truth," Sutton screamed. "I asked her who was behind it, but she wouldn't tell me."

  Evans glanced up at Brady. "Satisfied?"

  The American nodded and Evans pulled Sutton to his feet and held him close for a moment. "You put a foot wrong from now on, boy, and I'll see you get sliced from here to Christmas."

  He shoved Sutton away from him and the gipsy twisted like an eel under Brady's arm and out of the door. Evans turned off the torch and took a couple of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. "Can you make any sense of it?"

  Brady shook his head. "Do you know anything about his wife?"

  "Keeps a drinking club down by the river," Evans told him. "It's called Twenty-One, and anything goes, believe me. She's been on the game since she was fourteen."

  Brady lit his cigarette and stood by the door, a frown on his face. After a while, Evans said, "What's running through your mind now, son?"

  "A lot of things," Brady said. "For example, the fact that somebody's got a vested interest in seeing me dead. I'd like to know why. If I can find out, I think it'll give me the answer to a lot of things including who killed Marie Duclos."

  "And what are you going to do about it?" Evans said shrewdly.

  Brady turned and grinned. "You've got a nose like a ferret." He went across to a pile of rubble and bricks in one corner and pushed a hand down the back and pulled out a coil of manilla rope. "There's forty foot there," he said. "And a six-foot sling that fastens with spring links. I've had them here for a week now and there's a pair of wire-cutters hidden in my mattress. That's all I need."

  "All you need for what?" Evans said, frowning.

  "I'm crashing-out," Brady said. "I've got a lead now--Wilma Sutton. I'll find out who put her up to this business if I have to beat it out of her."

  "You're crazy," Evans said. "It can't be done."

  "Anything can be done if you put your mind to it," Brady said. "Come up top and I'll show you."

  They went out on to the catwalk, climbed up the scaffolding and squatted in an angle of the steel framework. "You were right when you said that getting out of the cell didn't achieve anything," Brady said. "Nobody could ever hope to get through all those gates and guards. I've decided to cut them all out."

  "How the hell do you plan to do that?" Evans demanded.

  Brady nodded towards the glass dome of the central tower. "Have you ever noticed the screw turning a handle by the entrance to our cell block in the central hall? A system of wire pulleys goes right up into the dome and opens a ventilating window there. That's the way I'm going."

  "You must be crazy!" Evans said. "That central tower is all of 150 feet."

  "It can be done," Brady told him. "I'm going to cut my way through the steel mesh at the end of the landing. From there I can reach part of the iron framework which supports the tower. It goes right up into the dome."

  "Nobody could climb that lot," Evans said. "Those beams are nearly perpendicular. It can't be done."

  "It can by someone with specialized experience," Brady told him. "Don't forget I was a structural engineer. I've worked on bridges and tall buildings all over the world. I'll wear rubber shoes and use the sling with the spring links as a safety belt."

  "Let's say you get out through the dome," Evans said. "Then what?"

  "There's a fall pipe drops down to the roof of D Block." Brady nodded across. "I can crawl along the roof ridge to the chimney of the laundry. From there, I'll rope down to an iron pipe that runs across to the perimeter wall. It's the one really weak link in this place, but I figure they must think it's harmless. Nobody could reach it from the ground. It's forty feet up."

  "And forty feet across," Evans said. "Even if you got that far, you'd still stand a fair chance of breaking your neck."

  "I'm going," Brady said stubbornly. "Nothing's going to stop me."

  Evans sighed. "When are you thinking of trying?"

  "Sunday evening," Brady said. "It's dark by five and we're locked up for the night at six. From then on, there's only one duty screw who works from the central hall, checking all blocks."

  "That could be dodgy," Evans said. "He usually pussyfoots around in carpet slippers. You never know where he's going to hit next."

  "I'll take my chance," Brady said. "With luck, they might not find I'm missing till breakfast time. I'll need you to do the necessary with that spoon, of course."

  Evans grinned. "You'll need me for more than that. Let's say you get over the wall and into the town. What are you going to do for money and clothes?"

  Brady shrugged. "Break in somewhere. Take my chances. What else can I do?"

  "I've got a key I made for myself in the machine shop," Evans told him. "It's hidden back in the cell. Opens any mortice deadlock known to man." He grinned. "Well, almost any. If you can get over the wall, cross the line to that churchyard over there. On the other side, you'll find a little lock-up shop. One of these surplus places. You can outfit yourself there. If you're lucky, you might even find a float in the till."

  "Are you sure about that?" Brady said.

  Evans nodded. "Remember I told you how I tried to find a way out of here when I first arrived? A bloke in my cell put me on to the shop. That's why I made a key. It was a perfect set-up, but I could never find a way out. Now, it's too late."

  Brady turned and looked out across the wall to the railway line and the churchyard beyond. The shop and the key were the final touch. He felt completely calm, completely sure of himself.

  It was only after the noon whistle when he was following Evans down the ladder that his hands started to tremble slightly because he was crashing-out and nothing was going to stop him.

  (4)

  RAIN lashed against the window as Brady peered out into the darkness. After a while he turned round and grinned tightly. "It's a hell of a night for it."

  Evans was standing at the door, listening. He turned and nodded. "That's it, son. If you're going, go now."

  Brady lifted his mattress and pulled out the coil of rope which he looped over one shoulder. The sling went round his waist, the wire-cutters into his pocket and he was ready.

  Evans was already on his knees at the door. A moment later there was a click and it opened slightly. The old man peered out cautiously and then turned and nodded. "Have you got everything?"

  Brady clapped him on the shoulder. "There's only one thing I'm worried about. What might happen to you."

  Evans grinned. "I've never been so surprised in my life as when you opened this door, and they couldn't expect me to grass, now could they? As much as my life's worth." Brady tried to think of something adequate and Evans grinned again. "Go on, son. Get to hell out of it, and good luck."

  The landing was dimly lit and the whole block wrapped in quiet. Brady stoo
d there for a moment and then, as the door closed behind him, he moved quickly and quietly in his rubber shoes to the stairs at the far end.

  Only a single light illuminated the hall below and the dome itself was shrouded in darkness. He balanced on the rail and clawed his way up the steel mesh curtain until he reached the roof of the cell block. He quickly hooked the snap links of the sling to the wire, securing himself in place and then took out the wire-cutters and got to work.

  It was surprisingly easy and he took his time cutting first in a straight line across the roof and then down the side of the wall, link by link. It only took him five minutes and when he had finished, he slipped the wire-cutters into his pocket and pushed the section he had cut outwards.

  The first steel beam lifted from a ledge in the wall of the hall about three feet to the right. He unclipped the spring links of his sling and reached out carefully through the opening. He could barely touch the beam. He took a deep breath and pushed himself forward. For a moment, the wire mesh held him and as it started to sag, he secured a firm grip on the edge of the beam. A moment later, he was standing on the ledge, wedged between the beam and the wall.

  A gate clanged down in the hall and he held his breath and waited. The duty officer passed through the pool of light and stopped at his desk. He made an entry in the night book and then continued to A Block on the far side. He opened the gate, locked it behind him, and disappeared.

  Brady lost no more time. The sling went round the beam and then his waist. He snapped the spring links together, leaned well back, bracing himself against the sling, and started to climb.

  It was really no worse than some of the construction jobs he had worked on, he told himself. That bridge in Venezuela, for instance, high in the Sierras, with the winds blowing men from their perches like flies every week, had been infinitely more dangerous. The only difference was that he'd been paid for doing that--well paid.

  He conquered an insane desire to laugh and looked down. The patch of light had receded, had grown infinitely smaller. It was as if the prison itself was falling away from him and he took a deep breath and moved on.