Hell Is Too Crowded v5)

by Jack Higgins

  Brady subsided, coughing slightly as the smoke of the harsh Turkish tobacco caught at the back of his throat, and Davos said, "By the way, as I haven't heard from Haras since yesterday, I'm presuming I won't do."

  "I'm afraid he met with a nasty accident last night," Brady said. "He should have looked where he was going."

  "You've really done astonishingly well during the last couple of days," Davos said. "When Haras told me you'd somehow got out of Manningham Gaol and given him the slip, I had a premonition we would see each other again."

  "I'd have followed you to Hell if necessary," Brady said.

  "But Hell is too crowded, my friend." Davos smiled gently. "There was never anything of a personal nature in this affair, Brady."

  "I know," Brady said wearily. "I just happened to be the first drunk on the first bench on the Embankment that night."

  "I'm afraid you were," Davos said. "If they had carried out the death sentence, everything would have been fine. Unfortunately, the Home Secretary chose to commute it to life imprisonment."

  "That must have really messed things up for you," Brady said.

  "It did, I assure you," Davos said. "In this country reprieved murderers serve on the average, no more than seven years of their sentence. The English are such a humane people."

  "So you decided to carry out the original sentence of the court," Brady said.

  "I had no choice." Davos shrugged. "There was always the chance that you would see my face somewhere and recognize it. Perhaps the odd newspaper photo or something like that. If not this year, the next or the one after. I had no intention of allowing such a possibility to threaten my peace of mind indefinitely."

  Brady flicked his cigarette out into space. He was tired. So tired that he was finding it difficult to concentrate. "What happens now?"

  "An intriguing situation, isn't it?" Davos smiled. "Just the two of us--and Kurt, of course. I sent my caretaker and his wife over to the mainland when I arrived yesterday."

  The Hungarian stood up and Brady scrambled to his feet and faced him, swaying slightly. "What's it to be? A bullet in the back?"

  "But my dear fellow, nothing so unsporting." Davos patted the dog and it whined restlessly. "Wonderful animals, Dobermanns, Brady. When fully trained, they can kill a man in under a minute."

  "Quite an accomplishment," Brady said.

  "It is indeed." Davos backed away and raised the shotgun. "I think the fence at the top of the slope would give you a fair start. It must be at least seventy-five yards away."

  "I'd like about two minutes alone with you," Brady said bitterly. "That's all it would take."

  "I suggest you get started," Davos said. "My patience is beginning to run out."

  Brady took his time going up the slope. There was no strength left in him and his limbs felt as heavy as lead.

  He paused once to glance back over his shoulder. Davos stood waiting, holding the dog firmly by its collar. "You'll have to do better than that, Brady," he called.

  What had the woman called him? A brutal and perverted sadist, ceaselessly searching for new sensation. Something sparked inside Brady, filling him with white-hot killing rage, flooding his weary limbs with a new energy. He breasted the slope in a few quick strides and clambered over the fence.

  The Dobermann howled once as Davos released it and Brady ran down a slight incline into a wooded valley. At most, he had three or four minutes. He ran into the trees and blundered through a plantation of young firs, branches slashing his face.

  He staggered on, one arm raised as a shield and suddenly lost his balance and fell, rolling over and over down a bank through sodden bracken and into a small stream.

  It was no more than a couple of feet deep and he followed its course for thirty or forty yards, brown water foaming around him as he splashed forward, until the water deepened suddenly as the stream emptied into a round pool.

  He struggled across to the other side and pulled himself up out of the water on to a steeply shelving bank, covered with boulders and rocks.

  Somewhere near by, the Dobermann howled and he could hear it crashing through the undergrowth. He started to peel his sodden jacket from his body. He had just got it off, when the dog erupted from the undergrowth on the far side of the pool, plunged into the water and swam strongly towards him.

  He waited until it was about three feet away and tossed his jacket over its head. The Dobermann reared up, snarling and trying to free itself and Brady picked up a stone as big as a man's head, staggered into the water and brought it down with all his force.

  There was a dreadful cracking sound and bone splintered. The Dobermann screamed like a human being and bucked frantically. He brought the stone down again and all movement ceased.

  He turned away, sobbing for breath and scrambled across the slippery boulders. Now all he had to do was stay ahead of Davos and get to the house. There was bound to be another gun there somewhere.

  He could taste blood in his mouth as he clawed his way up through the fir trees and emerged on to level ground. At this point, the trees swept out in an arc, thinly scattered over the ground, until they almost touched the fence. As Brady started forward, there was a cry of anger and Davos appeared about forty yards to the left.

  The Hungarian moved with astonishing rapidity, firing the first barrel as he ran. Brady was almost at the fence. He ducked as shot screamed through the rain over his head and then scrambled over and started to run, weaving desperately from side to side.

  He had gone no more than twenty yards when the Hungarian reached the fence and fired the second barrel. Brady cried out in agony, tripped and rolled over and over, stopping a little way from the edge of the cliffs, his face to the sky, a stone digging painfully into his back.

  The main blast had missed him, but several pellets had caught him in the left shoulder and arm and he sat up, his face grey with pain as blood soaked through his sleeve.

  Davos moved down the slope towards him and halted five or six feet away. His face was white with rage and a muscle twitched convulsively in his jaw.

  "I can forgive you many things, Brady," he said, "but not the dog. Not Kurt."

  A helicopter swung in from the sea about a quarter of a mile away, its fuselage a vivid yellow smudge against the grey sky. The sound of its engine had no meaning for Davos. He broke open the shotgun and took two fresh cartridges from his breast pocket, his eyes never leaving Brady's face.

  The stone upon which Brady had come to rest was about the size of a tennis ball. His right hand fastened over it and he dashed it into the Hungarian's face with all his force.

  It caught him in the right eye. He screamed and dropped the gun and Brady scrambled to his feet and flung himself forward. Davos, maddened by the pain of his damaged eye, swung out wildly and caught Brady full in the mouth.

  Pain had no meaning for Brady and he bored in, forgetting his damaged left arm, forgetting everything except the one fixed idea of smashing Davos into the ground.

  Davos clubbed him in the side of the neck and then Brady was in close. He lifted his right knee into the Hungarian's crotch and then into the face. Davos twisted as he fell and rolled over the edge of the cliff, sliding on his back down the rock slope to the beach.

  Brady had no more strength left. He sat there in the grass and fought for breath as the helicopter hovered briefly at the top of the slope and landed.

  When the door opened, the first man out was a police constable and after him, came Inspector Mallory holding his Homburg hat on with one hand as he moved out under the swinging blades.

  Brady didn't wait to argue. He turned and went over the cliff feet-first, slipping and sliding down the slope in a shower of stones and tumbled into a heap of sand.

  Davos was staggering along the shoreline towards the spur of rock which jutted out into the sea, separating them from the next cove. Brady scrambled to his feet and went after him.

  The Hungarian heard him coming. He turned to glance over his shoulder and then plunged wearily
into the sea and waded out to round the spur.

  When Brady caught up with him, they were waist-deep in water. Davos had no fight left in him at all. He gave a strangled cry and thrashed wildly at the water as Brady seized him by the throat with both hands.

  "You're going to tell them, you bastard!" Brady screamed. "You're going to tell them everything."

  There was a strange roaring in his ears and he pressed down. The Hungarian's battered face disappeared beneath the water and then strong arms were pulling him away and Mallory was shouting in his ear, "It's all right, Brady. We know everything."

  The inspector was standing beside him, the skirts of his raincoat billowing out in the water, somehow looking faintly ridiculous. Two constables supported Davos between them.

  Mallory took Brady by the arm and led the way to the shore. They crossed the narrow strip of beach and Brady slumped down in the shelter of a large boulder. He was utterly spent, but his mind was crystal clear.

  Mallory crouched beside him and examined his arm. "This looks pretty nasty. From the look of you, you could do with a couple of weeks in hospital."

  "Never mind that," Brady said. "Tell me how you found out about Davos."

  "Your friend, Miss Dunning, got in touch with me at about five o'clock this morning when she found you'd cleared out."

  "And you believed her?"

  Mallory shook his head. "She only gave me food for thought. I was still with her when I got a call from Guy's Hospital. I'd had a man sitting at the bedside of Mrs. Rose Gordon, waiting for her to regain consciousness."

  "But Haras shot her in the head," Brady said stupidly. "I was there."

  "He only creased her," Mallory told him. "She made a most interesting statement. I got on to the R.A.F. at once."

  "The helicopter was a nice touch."

  Mallory grinned. "They picked us up at the South Bank landing stage. I wanted to get here fast. My one fear was that you might have done for Davos before we arrived."

  Stones rattled down in a fine spray. As Brady glanced up Anne Dunning slid the last few feet down to the beach. She wore a belted raincoat and headscarf and her face was white and drawn.

  Mallory stood up. "I'll help them get Davos up top. We'll come back for you in a few minutes."

  He moved away and the girl came forward and crouched down beside Brady. She removed her headscarf and started to tie it about his arm and shoulder.

  "You shouldn't have left without telling me," she said.

  "There was nothing else I could do," he told her. "Don't forget, I thought Mrs. Gordon was dead. In any case, I didn't want to involve you any further. Things didn't look too good."

  She smoothed the hair back from his brow. "You look as if you've had a bad time."

  "It's all over now," he said. "And that's the main thing. Got a cigarette?"

  She produced a crumpled pack and lit one for him. As she passed it across, she said hesitantly, "What are you going to do now?"

  "Boston, I think," he said. "And that job my brother-in-law offered me. I've had England for the time being."

  She looked out to sea, pain on her face, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Is that okay with you?"

  She turned sharply, sudden tears in her eyes. "Damn you, Matt Brady. I thought you weren't going to ask me."

  He pulled her close against his chest and somewhere high in the sky, a seagull cried harshly and dipped low over their heads before flying out to sea.

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  A Biography of Jack Higgins

  Jack Higgins is the pseudonym of Harry Patterson (b. 1929), the New York Times bestselling author of more than seventy thrillers, including The Eagle Has Landed and The Wolf at the Door. His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.

  Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, Patterson grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As a child, Patterson was a voracious reader and later credited his passion for reading with fueling his creative drive to be an author. His upbringing in Belfast also exposed him to the political and religious violence that characterized the city at the time. At seven years old, Patterson was caught in gunfire while riding a tram, and later was in a Belfast movie theater when it was bombed. Though he escaped from both attacks unharmed, the turmoil in Northern Ireland would later become a significant influence in his books, many of which prominently feature the Irish Republican Army. After attending grammar school and college in Leeds, England, Patterson joined the British Army and served two years in the Household Cavalry, from 1947 to 1949, stationed along the East German border. He was considered an expert sharpshooter.

  Following his military service, Patterson earned a degree in sociology from the London School of Economics, which led to teaching jobs at two English colleges. In 1959, while teaching at James Graham College, Patterson began writing novels, including some under the alias James Graham. As his popularity grew, Patterson left teaching to write full time. With the 1975 publication of the international blockbuster The Eagle Has Landed, which was later made into a movie of the same name starring Michael Caine, Patterson became a regular fixture on bestseller lists. His books draw heavily from history and include prominent figures--such as John Dillinger--and often center around significant events from such conflicts as World War II, the Korean War, and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

  Patterson lives in Jersey, in the Channel Islands.

  Patterson as an infant with his mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. He moved to Northern Ireland with his family as a child, staying there until he was twelve years old.

  Patterson with his parents. He left school at age fifteen, finding his place instead in the British military.

  A candid photo of Patterson during his military years. While enlisted in the army, he was known for his higher-than-average military IQ. Many of Patterson's books would later incorporate elements of the military experience.

  Patterson's first payment as an author, a check for PS67. Though he wanted to frame the check rather than cash it, he was persuaded otherwise by his wife. The bank returned the check after payment, writing that, "It will make a prettier picture, bearing the rubber stampings."

  Patterson in La Capannina, his favorite restaurant in Jersey, where he often went to write. His passion for writing started at a young age, and he spent much time in libraries as a child.

  Patterson visiting a rehearsal for Walking Wounded, a play he wrote that was performed by local actors in Jersey.

  Patterson with his children.

  Patterson in a graveyard in Jersey. Patterson has often looked to graveyards for inspiration and ideas for his books.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now kno
wn or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright (c) 1962 by Jack Higgins

  ISBN: 978-1-936317-68-4

  This edition published in 2010 by Open Road Integrated Media

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