He came to a gasping halt near the road. Desperately he scrambled to his feet and looked back over his shoulder. At the level he was now on, he realized neither Bleck nor Kitson could see him, owing to the overhanging rocks that screened him from their view. Although he couldn’t see them and he had a feeling of momentary safety, he could hear them and the sound of their movements sounded alarmingly close. He looked around wildly, sure that in a few minutes, they would catch up with him.
To his right was a wide stretch of short thick scrubs that grew on the mountainside. His one panic-stricken thought was now to hide, and he bolted headlong into the shrubs, wading thigh-deep through the close undergrowth, tearing his trousers against the stiff little shrubs, but not caring, until he reached the centre of the thicket, then he threw himself down, and stretched out flat, the shrubs closing over him like the covering of a protective blanket.
Trying to control his breathing, he lay motionless, listening. Kitson was the first to reach the road. He came to an abrupt stop and looked to right and left, surprised and startled to see no
sign of Gypo.
Panting and cursing, Bleck joined him.
‘Where is he?’ Bleck gasped.
‘Looks like he’s gone to ground,’ Kitson said.
Both men looked towards the stretch of shrubs. It was the obvious and only place where anyone could hide on this bare mountain slope.
‘That’s where he is!’ Bleck said, pointing, then raising his voice, he bawled, ‘Gypo! Come on out of there! We know you’re in there!’
Gypo flinched at the sound of Bleck’s voice, but he flattened himself further into the sandy soil, holding his breath and waited.
Bleck turned to Kitson.
‘Let’s get after the creep! You go in at the top and I’ll go in here!’
He walked to the shrub patch and pushed his way in, but he had only forced his way forward for about ten yards or so before he stopped, realizing the labour and the time it would take to cover the whole vast patch of ground. Unless he was lucky enough to walk right on to Gypo he would probably never find him.
Kitson, too, moving into the dense tangle of shrubs, also realized the difficulty of the task and he also came to a stop.
The two men looked at each other over the sea of green, tightly growing shrubs.
‘Gypo!’ Bleck shouted, his voice shaking with rage. ‘This is your last chance! If you don’t come out I’ll give you a beating you’ll live to remember! Come on out!’
Hearing the rage and despair in Bleck’s voice, Gypo remained motionless. He realized that if he only kept his nerve and remained right where he was, he stood a good chance of getting away.
Bleck began to move forward again, but without much hope and Gypo heard him forcing his way through the shrubs, going away from him. He could also hear Kitson crashing through the undergrowth, and also going away from him.
He waited, getting his breath back while his pounding heart slowly returned to a more normal beat.
After some minutes, the noise of the two men searching for him began to fade into the distance, and Gypo decided it would be safe to make a move. If they were going to cover the whole of the ground, it would be safer for him to keep shifting his position.
He started off, pulling himself over the sandy ground, manoeuvring his body past the short thick stems of the shrubs, careful not to disturb the head of the shrubs that now formed a screen above his crawling body.
He had been crawling forward for some thirty or forty yards, almost relaxed in his feeling of safety, when he saw the snake. He had just put his right hand out, his arm fully extended, his fingers digging into the soft soil to pull himself forward, when he glanced ahead, and there was the snake, coiled, its flat, diamond head within a few inches of his hand.
Gypo sucked in his breath in a hiss of terror. His reflexes became paralysed. It was as if he were turned to stone. Fear chilled his blood and sent his heart pounding so violently that he felt suffocated.
The snake, too, remained motionless.
Several agonizing seconds passed, then with his breath whistling through his clenched teeth, Gypo snatched his hand back.
As he did so, the snake struck.
Gypo felt the sharp stab of pain in the heel of his hand. He sprang to his feet with a wild, terrified scream, and started a blind, blundering rush through the shrubs.
Bleck and Kitson had reached the end of the shrub patch and were turning to come back at another level.
Gypo’s scream made both men stiffen and pause.
Then they saw Gypo running, his arms thrashing the air, and they heard his blood-chilling yells.
‘The lug’s gone crazy!’ Bleck said, and breaking into a run, he started to crash through the shrubs after Gypo, followed by Kitson.
Gypo’s panic-stricken run carried him clear of the shrubs, then when he reached the steep slope of the mountainside, he fell and began to roll down the hill, setting up a cloud of dust and dislodging stones as he rolled helplessly down the slope.
Kitson, racing ahead of Bleck, was the first to reach him. He dropped down on his knees beside Gypo, who had come to rest on his back, wedged against a rock.
‘Gypo!’ Kitson panted. ‘It’s okay. I won’t let him touch you! What’s the matter?’
He was shocked to see that Gypo’s face was livid and his eyes were like holes in a grey-white sheet.
‘The snake,’ Gypo managed to gasp.
Bleck came blundering up, his breath rasping at the back of his throat.
‘You yellow rat!’ he snarled. ‘I’ll kill you for this!’
He aimed a kick at Gypo’s prostrated body, but Kitson blocked his swinging foot with his arm.
‘Cut it out!’ Kitson said. ‘Can’t you see there’s something wrong with him?’
‘The snake,’ Gypo sobbed and tried to lift his paralysed right arm to show Kitson.
Kitson leaned forward and saw how red and swollen Gypo’s hand was. He touched the swollen flesh, and Gypo gave a squeal of pain that sent a chill up Kitson’s spine.
‘What happened?’ Kitson asked, squatting down beside Gypo.
‘The snake,’ Gypo panted. ‘I crawled right onto it.’
Kitson saw the two telltale punctures in the inflamed flesh.
‘Take it easy, Gypo,’ he said. ‘I’ll fix it. Don’t get scared.’
‘Get me to hospital,’ Gypo moaned. ‘I don’t want to die the way my brother died.’
Kitson took out his handkerchief, and twisted it into a cord, then he tied it around Gypo’s wrist.
‘You mean he’s been bitten by a snake?’ Bleck said, grabbing Kitson by his shoulder. ‘Then how the hell are we going to open the truck?’
Kitson shook him off. He took out a penknife from his pocket and opened one of the blades.
‘This is going to hurt, Gypo,’ he said, catching hold of Gypo’s wrist. ‘But it’ll fix it.’
He dug the point of the knife into Gypo’s hot, swollen hand and cut down.
Gypo screamed, hitting Kitson with his left hand feebly and trying to pull free.
The wound Kitson had made began to bleed. Still keeping his grip, Kitson tried to squeeze out the snake poison. He was alarmed at Gypo’s pallor: he looked as if he were dying.
‘Alex,’ Gypo gasped, ‘you are my friend. I didn’t mean what I said. Get me to hospital.’
‘I’ll get you there. Take it easy,’ Kitson said. He tightened the handkerchief around Gypo’s wrist, then stood up. ‘I’ll get the Buick.’
Bleck said, ‘You’ll do — what?’
‘I’m getting the car and I’m taking Gypo to hospital,’ Kitson said. ‘Look at him! He’s in a bad way.’ He turned and started up the hill towards the road.
‘Kitson!’ The snap in Bleck’s voice made Kitson pause and turn.
‘What is it?’
‘Come back here!’ Bleck shouted. ‘Have you gone nuts? Look up there!’ He pointed to an aircraft that was slowly circling the mountains. ‘You bri
ng the car out of cover and they’ll spot it. How long do you think it’ll be before the cops come up here to investigate?’
‘So what?’ Kitson said angrily. ‘We’ve got to get him to hospital, otherwise he’ll die. Can’t you see that?’
‘You’re not to bring the car out of cover,’ Bleck said.
‘It’s thirty miles to the hospital,’ Kitson said. ‘What do you expect me to do — carry him?’
‘I don’t give a damn!’ Bleck snarled. ‘You’re not bringing the car out on this road in daylight. He’ll have to take his chance!’
‘Oh, go to hell!’ Kitson said and, turning, he started up the side of the mountain towards the road.
‘Kitson!’
The threat in Bleck’s voice made Kitson pause and he looked back.
Bleck had his gun out and it was pointing at him.
‘Come back here!’ Bleck said.
‘He’s dying!’ Kitson said. ‘Can’t you see that?’
‘You come back here!’ Bleck said, his voice vicious. ‘You’re not getting the car. Come back here and fast! I’m not telling you again, plough boy!’
Aware that his heart was beginning to thump, Kitson came slowly back down the slope. This was it! he thought. This is where I take this punk. I’ve got to watch out for his right hand. This is the show down. I’m not going to let Gypo die.
‘We’ve got to do something for him,’ he said as he approached Bleck. ‘We just can’t stand here and watch him die! We’ve got to get him to hospital.’
‘Look at him, you fool!’ Bleck said. ‘By the time you get up there, get the car, bring it down here, load him in and get him to hospital, he’ll be dead.’
‘We’ve got to do something for him,’ Kitson said and, not looking at Bleck, he moved past him, his muscles tense, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bleck lower the gun.
Kitson swung around, his fist coming down in a chopping blow on Bleck’s wrist.
The gun shot out of Bleck’s hand and dropped into the shrubs. Bleck jumped back and faced Kitson. There was a pause as they looked at each other, then Bleck grinned.
‘Okay, you bum,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve been asking for it. I’ve always wanted to take you, now I’ll show you what fighting means.’
Kitson waited, his hands in fists, his eyes narrowed.
Bleck moved forward, weaving a little, his chin tucked down, his hands held low.
Kitson shot out a probing left, but Bleck’s head shifted and Kitson’s fist scraped past his ear. Bleck ducked under Kitson’s right hand counter and his right thudded into Kitson’s ribs; a thump that made Kitson give ground and gasp.
As Bleck moved in, Kitson caught him with a left and a right to the head that staggered Bleck.
The two men shifted away, then came in simultaneously, slugging at each other, shifting from the heavier blows, taking the lighter ones, moving in and out, cautious and watchful.
Kitson thought he saw an opening and he slammed in a hard left, but Bleck weaved away and Kitson’s left slid over his shoulder. His lips peeling off his teeth, Bleck let go with his right that took Kitson solidly under his heart.
It was a devastating punch and its solid impact brought Kitson down to his knees.
Still grinning, Bleck moved forward and clubbed Kitson on the side of his neck and Kitson dropped face down, his mind blacked out.
Bleck stood back.
Kitson managed to heave himself up on his hands and knees, shaking his head. He saw Bleck moving forward, and he threw himself at Bleck’s knees, his arms wrapping themselves around Bleck’s legs.
As Bleck fell, he thumped Kitson on the top of his head.
The two men sprawled on the ground. Still dazed, Kitson tried to get a grip on Bleck’s throat, but Bleck hit him on the side of his head, and then rolled clear.
As Bleck got to his feet, Kitson pushed himself upright. He was a little late in getting his hands up, and he took Bleck’s right hand punch, high up on his cheekbone. He sagged under the force of the punch. Lurching forward, he tied up Bleck’s arm, and for a long moment, the two men wrestled, Bleck trying to break Kitson’s hold, and Kitson frantically trying to hold on until his head cleared.
Bleck finally broke free and let go a long, raking left that Kitson just managed to avoid. He sank a right-hand punch into Bleck’s ribs and he saw Bleck’s face contort with pain.
Encouraged, Kitson crowded forward. He slammed a right and a left to Bleck’s head.
Grunting and snarling, Bleck backed away.
Kitson tossed over a left swing that landed high up on Bleck’s head. Bleck staggered and threw up his hands. Kitson sank his right into Bleck’s belly. Bleck reeled back, gasping.
Intent now on the kill, Kitson moved forward recklessly. He started a punch, but realized a shade too late that Bleck was throwing his right hand.
Kitson felt the thud against his jaw, then something white and hot exploded inside his head. He knew as he fell he had walked into Bleck’s special punch, but there was nothing he could do about it. He fell face down, his face coming into contact with sharp stones, and, grunting with pain, he rolled over, his cut face upturned to the hot sun. He lay there, stunned, for some moments, then he made the effort and raised his head.
Bleck was bending over Gypo, staring down at him.
Kitson shook his head, then he got unsteadily to his feet. He came staggering over to Bleck, who looked over his shoulder at him, his face set and hard.
‘He’s dead,’ Bleck said in a cold, flat voice. ‘The creep would pull a stunt like this on us.’
Kitson knelt by Gypo’s side and took his cold, damp hand between his hands.
Gypo looked relaxed, his mouth open, his dark, small eyes stared fixedly up at the blue sky.
Regardless of the pain that moved through his beaten body, Kitson thought: with Gypo dead, what hope have we now of opening the truck? The million dollar take is now a mirage. The world in our pockets! Morgan certainly picked the wrong one this time.
‘Leave him,’ Bleck said. ‘He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do for him.’
Kitson didn’t say anything. He held on to Gypo’s hand, looking down at the dead man.
Shrugging, Bleck started the long walk back to where the truck was hidden.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I
Two men came down the path by the lake and walked to where Fred Bradford was sitting, reading the morning’s newspaper. He had just had breakfast, and having sent his wife and son down to the lake, he was enjoying a little relaxation before joining them. He looked towards the approaching men, wondering who they were.
One of them was wearing the uniform of an Army major; the other wore a cheap, ready-made suit with a pork-pie hat set squarely on his head. The major was a small, fair man with a military moustache and a brown, lean face. His blue eyes were hard and direct. His companion was tall and bulky. His red, weather-beaten face was coarse featured, and Bradford guessed he was a police officer in plain clothes.
‘Mr. Bradford?’ the major asked, coming to rest in front of the sitting man.
‘Why, sure,’ Bradford said, getting to his feet. ‘You want me?’
‘Fred Bradford, junior?’ the major asked.
Bradford stared at him.
‘Why, no. That’s my son.’ He folded the newspaper nervously and dropped it into his chair. ‘What do you want with him?’
‘I’m Major Delaney, Field Security,’ the major said and waving his hand to his companion, ‘this is Lieutenant Cooper, City Police.’
Bradford looked uneasily at the two men.
‘I’m glad to know you gentlemen.’ He paused, then went on, ‘You don’t want my boy, do you?’
‘Where is he?’ Cooper asked.
‘He’s down by the lake with his mother,’ Bradford said. ‘What is this all about?’
‘We would like to talk to him, Mr. Bradford,’ Delaney said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
At this moment, Fred Bradfo
rd, junior, came wandering up the path, whistling shrilly. He stopped whistling when he saw the two men, and he approached more slowly, a sudden wary expression on his face.
‘Here he is now,’ Bradford said. Turning to his son, he said, ‘Hey, junior, come here. Where’s your mother?’
‘She’s fooling down by the lake,’ the boy said, a scornful note in his voice.
‘Are you Fred Bradford, junior?’ Delaney asked.
‘That’s right,’ the boy said, looking up at the two men.
‘Did you write this?’ Delaney asked, taking an envelope from his pocket and extracting a sheet of notepaper.
Bradford recognized his son’s sprawling handwriting that covered the paper.
‘That’s right,’ the boy said.
He squatted down on his haunches, took off his battered straw hat and began to fill it with grass.
Bradford said blankly, ‘My son wrote to you?’
‘He wrote to police headquarters,’ Delaney said. ‘He claims to know where this missing truck is.’
Bradford gaped at his son.
‘Junior! What have you been doing? You know you don’t know where it is!’
The boy looked up at his father scornfully, then went on filling his hat with grass. When he had filled the hat, he bent forward and dipped his head into the hat, pulled the hat on and then straightened up.
‘I have to do it that way,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘otherwise the grass falls out. It keeps my head cool. It’s my own invention.’
Delaney and Cooper exchanged glances, then Delaney said kindly, ‘Where is the truck, son?’
The boy sat down and crossed his legs. He adjusted his hat, pulling it more firmly down on his head.
‘I know where it is,’ he announced solemnly.
‘Well, that’s fine,’ Delaney said, restraining his impatience with an effort. ‘Where is it?’
‘How about the reward?’ the boy asked, looking up sharply; his eyes fixed disconcertingly on the major’s face.
‘Look, junior,’ Bradford said, sweating with embarrassment, ‘you know you don’t know where the truck is. You’ll get into serious trouble wasting these gentlemen’s time.’
The World in My Pocket Page 20
