by John Creasey
It was picturesque, and the sun was sending a golden glory about the trees and grass. It shone on the windows of the little house, a golden reflection which sometimes dazzled the Russian, who had concealed himself in a small clump of bushes.
He had been there for over two hours.
A hundred yards away, also hidden by bushes, was the car to which he had transferred himself on the fierce chase out of Orlanto. To the west he could see the spire of the church at Salvater, and the red and white roofs of some of the houses. It was very quiet where he was standing, except for the chatter of birds.
Inside the little house, he knew, was the Marquis.
Stefan stood tirelessly and unmoving, his large, placid face showing no expression. He was reflecting on what had happened, because he believed it possible that he had missed some small incident which might prove important in a reconstruction of the kidnapping.
The incident at the airport was deeply engraved on his mind, as well as the first part of the chase. He had heard the explosions and looked behind him to see what was happening to the police-car, then been quick to realise that there was no hope of assistance from it. He had told his companion, the stranger who had stopped them from going on the flying-boat. The man had shrugged and said in English: ‘That leaves it to us, what?’
‘Yes,’ Stefan had admitted.
‘Not too good,’ the other had commented.
The chase had gone on for a long time, until Stefan had feared that they would run out of petrol. Judging from the position of the sun, he had reckoned that at one time they had gone thirty or forty miles from Orlanto, and then turned back in a half-circle to cross the River Guan and bring them to Salvater; the driver had known the name of the village.
Just outside it, the car they had been following had turned into the drive of the small house. The drive was a difficult one to see, and could easily be missed. The Englishman had appeared to pass it, but had seen where their quarry had gone, and been aiming to pull up at the first place where they could get some cover. A tall, stocky man, florid-faced and with nut-brown hair, the Englishman had talked little; and for an hour or more they had watched the house together.
No one had gone to it, or come away.
Finally Stefan had suggested that the other went to the village, which he knew, and telephoned Palfrey, as well as tried to get some petrol in case they needed to move off again in a hurry. The Englishman had agreed, and gone off.
Nothing had happened since then.
As he watched, Sefan decided that the chances of a raid on the house succeeding were good. Three or four determined men could get inside and remove the Marquis forcibly. The tree-clad hillside would enable them to get right up to the house without being seen, and so take its occupants by surprise. Much depended, decided Stefan, on the numerical strength of the household.
He heard someone approaching, and looked round, unable to see who it was for some minutes. Then the Englishman came in sight, labouring up the hillside with a rusty two-gallon can of petrol in each hand. He was red-faced and perspiring.
Stefan moved quickly to his assistance.
‘Thanks,’ said the Englishman, and drew a deep breath. ‘Precious heavy, what?’ He looked unsmiling into Stefan’s eyes. ‘Better get it to the car, d’you think?’
‘Yes,’ said Stefan stolidly. ‘I’ll take it. You stay here and watch.’
He started for the car, going farther than was necessary in order to avoid being seen from the house. When he returned the other went on: ‘Palfrey and Debenham are on the way by now.’
‘Good,’ said Stefan. ‘And any others?’
‘No. No one else it’s safe to call on.’ The Englishman dived into his pocket, and drew forth a small packet with a silk handkerchief as its only wrapping. ‘Sandwiches—bit of luck, eh?’
Stefan agreed warmly, and they shared the sandwiches. They were of coarse black bread and tomatoes, without salt, and consequently helped to slake their thirst as well as satisfying their hunger. Finished, the Englishman shook out the handkerchief, folded it carefully, and replaced it in his breast pocket. They did not light cigarettes in case the smoke was seen, but waited quietly while watching the house and listening for the approach of a car.
A little more than an hour passed before Brian and Palfrey arrived. Brian eased off the accelerator at the sight of Stefan by the side of the road and put on the brakes.
Then the Englishman appeared. ‘All ready, what?’ He touched his hip pocket.
Brian stared appraisingly.
‘Are we going to rush the place,’ he asked slowly, ‘or make it look as if we’re calling by accident?’
‘By accident, of course,’ said the Englishman energetically. ‘Two of us go and knock, two others approach so that they are not seen. Obvious, eh?’ No one argued with him, for he took command without a by-your-leave, and certainly without the slightest hint of embarrassment. ‘Palfrey, you and I are the best to approach openly, eh? Debenham and Andromovitch can do the strong-arm stuff. All clear, everyone? Understand what to do?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Stefan with some irony.
Accompanied by Palfrey, the Englishman strode up the road towards the drive leading to the small white house. Stefan and Brian dodged from one clump of bushes to another.
Palfrey walked first along the path towards the door. The house was of Moorish design, with a wide portico, and glass doors which glinted a dozen colours in the slanting rays of the sun. He knocked as the other joined him.
Brian and Stefan watched breathlessly.
After a long pause the door opened. Words floated back to the watchers, but were indistinguishable. Then Palfrey and the Englishman entered the house.
Stefan said:
‘I don’t like the quiet, Brian. You go, I will keep watch from here.’ He nodded decisively when Brian hesitated, and with a frown the other hurried forwards and vaulted the hedge. He was hidden for a moment by high bushes.
Stefan peered about him, not knowing what to expect. The seconds ticked by, and he began to wonder whether he was wise to stay where he was, or whether he should go to help the others. They seemed to be inside for a long time. He took a half-step forward, and then drew back abruptly.
Poking from some bushes not ten yards away from him was the snout of a machine-gun. He could not see the gunner, but watched breathlessly. As he watched, the sun glinted on something on the other side of the house, just in sight. Peering towards it, he saw two men in the drab uniform of the Guarda Nationaie, both holding revolvers. Near them was a second machine-gun nest.
He took his automatic from his pocket, backed from the cover of the bushes, and approached those where the nearest machine-gun nest was hidden. He kept an eye on the house all the time, but everything there was silent – too silent.
Inside, Palfrey thought so too.
The fat, greasy-faced servant who had opened the door had tried to pretend that he was on his own, and thus unable to offer the coffee and rest for which the visitors had asked.
At last, unwillingly and with obvious misgivings, he had given way, and had ushered them into a long, low-ceilinged room.
Through the large windows at one end they could see the village and the rolling hillside. The room itself was furnished in period style, charming and dainty, with a touch of eighteenth century French influence. Its quiet was the most unnerving thing, for if Stefan and the Englishman had been right the Marquis was in the house.
The servant came padding along the passage, opening the door and then entering with a loaded tray. The Englishman watched him put it down, and then said abruptly in the servant’s own language: ‘Put up your hands!’
To Palfrey the speed with which the Englishman took an automatic from his pocket was an astonishing thing. One moment his hand appeared to be empty, and the next the gun was pointing towards the servant’s bulging waist. The man gasped deep in his throat and threw up his hands, crossing himself on the way. ‘Señor, señors!’
‘How
many people are here?’ snapped the Englishman. ‘No others, señor, no others!’
The Englishman moved, the Catanese screamed. The scream was cut off short, for the Englishman struck his victim across the temple with the butt-end of the gun. There was a grunt, and then the man collapsed. The Englishman stopped him from falling, and Palfrey went forward to help. They lowered the man full length on the carpet, and Palfrey’s companion took a coil of cord from his pocket.
‘Put his hands together, will you? Thanks.’ He bound the fleshy wrists, and then the man’s ankles. ‘That’s looked after him, what?’ He looked blankly into Palfrey’s eyes. ‘A quick search is wanted now.’ – There was no one else in the downstairs rooms. The Marquis was lying in the last bedroom they searched. He was on his back, and there was a bandage about his right arm, which was resting on the bedspread. His face was pallid, but even in unconsciousness there was a touch of hauteur in the flare of the nostril, the set of the lips.
‘So we’ve got him,’ said Palfrey gently. He paused, and as the other stepped nearer the Marquis, added: ‘Debenham ought to see you now, he thinks I take things coolly!’
‘Coolly? I’m all steamed up. Not a good business, Palfrey, don’t think it is. Left him here, ready for us to take away? Nonsense! Either we’ve surprised them, and I don’t believe it, or they’ve got a rod in pickle for us. Damned unnerving.’ He stared about the room, while Palfrey approached the Marquis and bent over him; his pulse was even, and he was breathing steadily. He touched the man’s shoulder, but there was no movement. He moved an eyelid, but the Marquis did not even stir; the pupil was dilated, Palfrey saw, and the white bloodshot. ‘Drugged?’ asked the anonymous Englishman abruptly. ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. He turned down the bedclothes, finding that the Marquis was fully clad, except for his shoes; they were standing near the bed. ‘Better put them on,’ he said. That was quickly done.
‘Everything in the garden’s lovely,’ said the Englishman with another grin. ‘I don’t think! Lead the way, will you? What?’ He lifted the Marquis bodily, making no apparent effort, and Palfrey went out of the room, taking a long step over the threshold.
They hurried downstairs, and began to open the front door when a sudden burst of machine-gun fire broke the uncanny silence, a sharp tap-tap-tap so swift and clear that it made Palfrey stop dead still.
‘Here it comes,’ said the other.
He made no bones about dropping flat on the floor after depositing the Marquis. He did it slowly and with quiet deliberation. Palfrey pressed himself close to the wall, and then ventured to kick the front door open more widely. A stream of bullets entered, going past him and over the heads of the others. The bullets thudded into the staircase with dull sounds which seemed innocuous.
Then from one of the shrubs just beyond the hedge Stefan came running. He cleared the hedge with a mighty leap, landed easily, swayed to one side, and then raced towards the house. A stream of bullets was fired towards him, but all missed. He reached the portico and went down on his knees, a movement so swift that it seemed to be like the sudden coiling of a spring.
Palfrey saw all that, but what amazed him most was the round drum of a Tommy-gun which Stefan was carrying.
Bullets from the attackers chipped pieces out of the plaster of the portico and the walls. The shooting came from one bush only, and then Stefan opened fire towards it. There was a shriek, and then the deadly tap-tap-tap ceased. Quite slowly and with ridiculous ease a man toppled forward into sight, the Tommy-gun he was carrying falling in front of him. Stefan called: ‘Hurry, Sap! There are dozens of them. If we are to reach the car we must run.’ He was on his feet then, peering about him, while from shrubs and bushes all about the house men in the uniform of the Guarda Nationale rose swiftly after each other, all of them armed. The hillside which had looked so empty swarmed with men. Shooting began afresh, but slackened when Stefan sent a burst of fire towards the nearest men.
‘I go first,’ he said, and then glanced over his shoulder. He drew a deep breath. ‘No, you take this.’
He was oblivious to the shooting then, showing no hint of fear. Palfrey was clenching his teeth, trying to force himself to leave the cover of the hallway and make a dash through the bullet-swept path. Stefan simply pushed the Tommy-gun into the hands of Palfrey’s companion, and bent down to pick up the Marquis. He did it with such superlative ease that the Marquis might have been a suit-case. Stefan hugged his burden to him, and then snapped: ‘You go first.’
‘Ready?’ asked the anonymous man calmly.
‘Right,’ said Palfrey.
All three men ran forward, the Englishman firing as he went. The bullets from the Tommy-gun curved a wide arc, and sent some men falling, others rushing back to the flimsy cover of the trees.
Stefan ran lightfooted, as if without a burden, in the gunner’s wake. Palfrey brought up the rear, with his automatic in his hand. As he went he thought of Brian, and at the same time heard a burst from another machine-gun, and felt the wind of bullets passing over his head. Neither of the others hesitated, but increased their speed. Palfrey plunged on, and saw a man drawing near. He fired at the man, who dropped to his knees, his shriek muffled by the constant barking of shots.
Then Palfrey saw Brian.
Brian appeared to leap from the ground and run towards the hedge. He cleared it with the ease of a hurdler, quite as easily as Stefan had done on the way to the house, and then raced towards the bush where the Guarda had their other machine-gun post. He held his fire until the gunner swept round towards him. Palfrey saw bullets sending shrubs and trees aquiver, and some seemed to go through Brian. It was an illusion, for Brian fired towards the trees in return. The machine-gun stopped abruptly.
Brian turned to one side.
The second of the three Tommy-guns which had been brought into use was lying by the side of its wounded gunner. Brian was no more than a yard away from it. He picked up the gun and actually weighed it in his hands, as if thoughtfully.
He could see that the circle of men had been too close to the house; they had taken it for granted that there would be no break-through. To prevent the escape they had to follow, and while following their aim was wild. The nearest man was forty feet from Brian when he suddenly turned, and sent two further bursts of fire towards the attackers. Then he swung round and raced in Palfrey’s wake.
He felt a momentary jubilation, but it was short-lived. Glancing down the hill-side he suddenly glimpsed a dozen or more men near the copse where the two cars were parked. Bushes and trees hid them from the unknown Englishman, Stefan, and Palfrey; they would run clear into the ambush unless they were warned.
He bellowed, loud-voiced.
For a moment he thought that the noise of shooting would prevent them from hearing him, but Palfrey turned his head and Brian gesticulated wildly, pointing downwards. Palfrey gathered his meaning, and obviously passed the word on. The others veered towards the right, and Brian followed them up the hill until they disappeared over the top. When he reached the summit, they were half way down the other side, and heading towards the River Guan.
‘Nice work,’ he said. He went on his stomach on the far side of the rise, and then raised the Tommy-gun so that he commanded the slope. Of the Guarda, at least thirty were advancing cautiously and in open formation, firing occasionally but to no good purpose.
‘Come on, my beauties,’ said Brian, and his voice was almost cooing. ‘Come on, my lovelies, come and see what Uncle Brian has got for you.’
He heard a sound behind him, and half-turned. He caught a glimpse of Palfrey crawling towards him.
‘Sap, you ass!’
‘Couldn’t leave you alone,’ mumbled Palfrey. ‘I’ve got Stefan’s gun, too.’ He was crawling on all fours with an automatic in either hand. His hair was blowing in a slight wind, and there was a deep scratch on his right cheek where the blood welled.
Brian said: Let ’em have it when I start. Send every mother’s son to hell and thereafter. That’ll stop ’em caus
ing more trouble in Orlanto, eh?’ He spoke in a soft, unfamiliar voice, and his eyes held a glitter. ‘Now!’ he exclaimed.
He began to shoot, and Palfrey followed his example.
The Guarda were coming up at too great a speed to stop immediately; some were within ten yards of the guns. Two of them fell, as did others farther down; but a group of six split up swiftly and then raced towards Brian and Palfrey, firing as they ran. Brian said: ‘Got to stop ‘em, or its curtains for us, Sap.’ Palfrey saw the wild, determined faces of the men, and knew that Brian had not exaggerated. The Guarda came on, and seemed near enough to stretch out their hands and touch him.
Chapter Fifteen
All Aboard the ‘Theophilo’
The six guards nearest Palfrey and Brian were perhaps a yard away from each other, and no more than a few feet from the crest of the hill, so that they could see over the top; and they were shooting. Bullets pecked into the earth near Palfrey’s head as he picked out one red-faced, wild-eyed attacker who was yelling at the top of his voice. As he fell, Brian opened fire again with the machine-gun, leaving it so long that to Palfrey it seemed that it would be too late.
Not one man of the six men reached the ridge.
‘Let’s have one of your guns,’ said Brian. ‘Is one empty?’ He took a gun and fired towards the nearest bush. After the first shot, there was no report. ‘Good,’ he said, and placed the gun so that its muzzle, and nothing else, showed over the edge and was visible to the guards. ‘That’ll do,’ he said. ‘At fifty paces they won’t be sure whether it’s me with Spitting Annie or you with the Mauser. Keep low, and off we go.’
They crept down the far slope, Brian moving backwards on all fours and dragging the Tommy-gun after him. He urged Palfrey to hurry down to the river, and Palfrey obeyed. Andromovitch was standing up in a small boat which seemed shorter than he was tall. That was an illusion, Palfrey saw as he drew nearer.
No one had yet ventured over the top of the ledge, and consequently he was able to get up and run towards the boat.
