Operation Destruct

by Christopher Nicole

  “Where’s your car parked, Clark?” he asked.

  “Down the end of the drive. Why?”

  “Because that’s just fine. You go get the jack, and start changing your tire. Take your time. Helen, you sit in the car, and if anyone shows any intention of coming in here, lean on the horn, accidentally.”

  “You’re going to break in?”

  “It’s too good an opportunity to miss.”

  “Looking for what?” Clark demanded.

  “Just looking.”

  “I think that’s too risky,” Helen said. “We know these people are armed . . .”

  “But we don’t know for sure if this is their house, do we? And we’ve established there’s nobody home. And you’ll be sitting down the end of the drive with your finger on the button. I won’t be five minutes.”

  Still she hesitated. “You’ll take off the second I blow?”

  “The very second. You’re supposed to be helping me, not acting as my nursemaid.”

  She made a face, hurried down the drive. Clark had already left, running across the field for his jack. Jonathan drew the knife from his belt, crossed the cobbles, examined the back door. It was a lock rather than a bolt so he turned his attention to the window beside it. This one was easy. The blade slipped between the two frames, and although the catch was rusty it took him only a moment to force it upward. He waited, holding his breath and listening, but heard nothing. Then a car engine roared on the road, and instinctively he retreated toward the wall; but the car did not stop and Helen did not blow, and in a few moments the night was quiet again, the only sound the steady patter of the rain.

  He returned to the window, thrust it up, and crawled through into the kitchen. He crouched in the middle of the floor, listening to the pounding of his heart. He wondered where she was, whether she was armed, what he was really doing here, Anna Cantelna! She haunted him.

  He went into the hall, glanced into the living room, then climbed the stairs. He glanced through the door at the top; there was not a shred of evidence to suggest that he had lain in that bed for hours that afternoon. He passed the bathroom, opened a door into a double bedroom. This clearly belonged to Edna and Robert. The third bedroom was at the end of the corridor. He stood before it, dried his sweaty wet hands on his rubber suit. He remembered holding her on the floor in the living room, and being unable to hurt her.

  He drew a long breath, turned the handle, threw the door wide, and checked, his nostrils assailed by the heavy scent of musk, his heart soaring into his mouth. But the room was empty, the bed tidy. He went to the window, drew the curtains, then switched on the bedside lamp. The wardrobe door was half open; hanging inside were a small-size seaman’s sweater and a pair of jeans; clearly what she had been wearing when the Ludmilla struck.

  He stood above a small writing desk. Tucked into one corner of the blotting pad was a folded note. He spread it on the pad. The writing was curiously upright and stilted.

  Enwright has telephoned; there has been trouble. You must sit it out and deny everything; it will be your word against Anders’. I will proceed as planned; Destruct must be completed and it is clear our adversaries know nothing. I have borrowed Edna’s coat. Many thanks.

  There was no signature.

  Jonathan gazed at it, large lumps of lead forming in his stomach. The telephone! How dumb could you be. Enwright need only have driven round the corner from Perelle Bay, and of course he would have had some signal, ringing and hanging up and ringing again, which would have alerted Anna Cantelna that this was a call she could answer. And now? She could only have left the house minutes before they arrived, probably walked openly down the road, shrouded in the dusk and the rain. She was probably in a plane at this moment, on her way to London and complete anonymity. As if to accentuate his sense of failure, a Viscount turboprop whined in the distance.

  Helen’s horn sounded, urgently. Jonathan switched off the lamp, moved to the window, watched the Vauxhall’s headlights shining down the drive. He could just make it out the back. He moved to the door, hesitated. To risk anything more was ridiculous. He had the bottle he had taken from the wreck. Craufurd’s experts could analyze that and find out what the Russians were up to.

  But Anna Cantelna was the linchpin of the whole operation. He had had her, and he had let her go. He closed the door, stepped into the cupboard, pressed himself against the inner wall, waited.

  The car engine growled in the yard, submerged itself in the garage. A door banged, and feet scraped in the downstairs hall. “Madam Cantelna!” Edna called.

  “She’ll be in her room,” Robert said.

  “Sleeping, I suppose. She sleeps, and we take all the risks.” Feet sounded on the stairs, and the door opened. The light flickered on. “Hey, Robert, she isn’t here.” Edna’s voice was frightened.

  “She’s in the loo, then. She wouldn’t have left the house.”

  “Robert! There’s a letter!”

  “I’m coming.” His feet clattered on the stairs.

  “She’s gone to meet Enwright. Of all the crazy things to do.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Robert said. “It was pretty dangerous of Ted, coming here today at all. We’re supposed to be acquaintances who fish together, not bosom pals. I wonder what can have gone wrong.” He clicked his tongue. “This sounds as if she isn’t coming back.”

  “You mean she’s gone chasing off to Barra in my fur coat?” Edna squealed. “I’ll never see it again.”

  “I’ll get you another,” Robert said. “But that’s it. She’s cleared off and left us here to hold the baby. Of all the cheek. Look, you’d better see if she’s left anything in here. You bring it downstairs and we’ll burn it. I’m going to have a drink.” His footsteps retreated.

  “Pour one for me,” Edna called. “Stealing my coat. That woman . . .” she opened the wardrobe door.

  For a long second they stared at each other, then she stepped backward. But Jonathan was already reaching forward, both hands extended, his fingers closing on her throat, an expression of determination, he hoped, on his face.

  Edna’s knees touched the bed, and she sat down. Still she stared at him, her face crimson, her nostrils dilated.

  “I spent this afternoon killing Alexis,” he whispered. “I’ve suddenly discovered a taste for it. You make a sound and I’ll break your neck.”

  She wore a reefer jacket over a guernsey and a tweed skirt. He pulled her handkerchief from her breast pocket.

  “I’ve been learning from your friends, too. Open wide.”

  Her jaw dropped, and he thrust the handkerchief in.

  “Now lie on your face.”

  She lay down without a sound. Her entire body was trembling. Jonathan took off her stockings, used them to tie her wrists and ankles securely together, then rolled her on her back and placed her head on the pillow.

  “I imagine before too long Robert will come up and look for you,” he said. “And like Madam Cantelna said, I suggest you sit tight and say nothing. About anything.”

  He switched off the light, tiptoed to the window, raised the sash. He sat on the sill, then turned to face the house, hung by his fingertips, and dropped. He landed by the living room window, but the room was empty; Robert was drowning his fears in the kitchen.

  A moment later he was over the wall and crossing the field. The temptation to rush straight out to the airport was tremendous. She could not possibly have reached there in time to check in for the flight which had just left, therefore she’d be waiting for the next one, a small, demure-looking woman in a borrowed fur. But what then? In a wetsuit, looking like a visitor from outer space, he doubted whether they’d let him in the building. And thanks to Edna, a light was beginning to shine in the fog.

  He regained the road, commenced a steady jog trot, and came upon the Mini. He slowed to a walk, regained his breath, put his head in the open window. “Hi!”

  “For Pete’s sake!” Helen cried. “I nearly jumped out of my suit. Where have you been? It�
��s fifteen minutes since I blew.”

  “I had things to do.” He sat beside her. “Let’s go.”

  Clark swung the car in a tight circle. “Where?”

  “I think Helen and I’d better get changed, for starters. Then I’ve a plane to catch.”

  “Yeah?”

  “My bird’s flown, but I’ve an idea where she’s gone. And I have to get that bottle to my people. So let’s have it. There’s a plane at eight-thirty.”

  “It’d better have three seats.”

  “Eh?”

  “I’m wondering if we haven’t been getting the short end of the stick, old son. You conned us into helping you, against my better judgment. Now you’ve conned us into assisting you in a burglary. And now you propose to flap your wings and fly away into the sunset Nuts. Where you go, we go. Musketeers and all that.”

  “I don’t think Clark is being unreasonable,” Helen said.

  “And you propose to hang on to that bottle?”

  “Until you give us something publishable in exchange.”

  Jonathan nodded thoughtfully. Taking on Clark held out no hope of success, and he hadn’t the time to argue. “Okay. Meet me at the airport in half an hour.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Clark said. “I’ll telephone and get us three seats, and we’ll pick you up.” He stopped in front of Oceanview. “In half an hour.”

  *

  The front hall was deserted, filled with the smell of frying lamb chops. Jonathan could hear Mrs. Constant talking in the lounge. He tiptoed past the door, ran up the stairs, dashed into the bathroom. He switched on the hot shower, stripped off his wetsuit, felt the heat spreading through his body. A long shudder drifted down from his shoulders; but it should have started at his mind.

  He picked up the soap, watched it spin out of his fingers. His hands trembled. He was suffering a far more serious reaction than he had thought possible. Coldly and confidently, two men had set out to drown him. Now one of those men was dead. He supposed he had killed Alexis, as certainly as if he had stuck a knife in his back.

  He started as knuckles played across the door, realized how painful his shoulder was.

  “Is that you, Mr. Anders?” Mrs. Constant demanded. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I’m just showering.”

  “Sergeant Miller from the police is here to see you. He’s been waiting near half an hour.”

  He’d forgotten the police. He wondered how quickly he’d get through his interview. “I’ll be right out.”

  “You’d better wait in his bedroom, Mr. Miller,” Mrs. Constant said. “You’ll want to keep this business as quiet as possible, I suppose.”

  Jonathan listened to a door close, got out of the bath. He toweled vigorously, wrapped himself in the towel, went into the bedroom. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, sergeant.”

  “I don’t blame you for wanting a hot bath, Mr. Anders. If I were you I’d go ahead and get dressed.” The sergeant was a big man, with heavy features and a small moustache; he moved slowly and thoughtfully, and his demeanor was sad. Now he sat at the table beside the bed, spread his notebook in front of him. “It must have been pretty cold, out there.”

  Jonathan held out his hands; the tips of the fingers were wrinkled. “Get’s right through to the bone.”

  “It does, indeed. How long were you in the water altogether, Mr. Anders?”

  “Oh, I suppose it must have been something over half an hour.”

  “Diving with this chap Alex?”

  “I only dived with Alex once. But Miss Bridges and I spent some time looking for him.”

  “He drowned on his first dive?”

  “His second. He went down the first time without me.”

  “And what exactly happened, on the second dive?”

  “I have no idea, sergeant. We reached the wreck all right, and then he seemed to lose his head. I don’t know if he’d hurt himself. We had separated as we dived, you see, and it was only when I swam back toward him that I noticed he was behaving strangely.”

  “He tried to grab hold of you?”

  “That’s right. We had a fight, which left me pretty short of breath, and I didn’t know how I was going to get free, so I kicked him away and got to the surface. Just in time. I was rescued by Miss Bridges.”

  “You’d arranged to go diving with them, too?”

  “Well, not actually. We came over on the same plane, you know, and we discussed the wreck, naturally. I imagine they got the same idea I had, fortunately for me. They must have recognized me in the water.”

  “Which is why Miss Bridges went for you instead of the other bloke. She must be a very courageous young lady.” He scratched his head. “Well, of course, I have no reason to doubt your story, so far as it goes. This chap Alex, as you call him, was drowned, and he does seem to have superficial bruises which could be accounted for by some sort of a fight underwater. We’ll have to wait for the post mortem to be absolutely sure. Our main problem at present is identification.”

  “I’d ask Enwright.”

  “He wasn’t a friend of yours, then?”

  “I never saw him before today.”

  “But Peter Martyn says that Enwright told him he didn’t know the fellow either,” the sergeant said. “And then there’s George Salt, who says he saw Ted and another man getting out of Ted’s van next to the slipway. He says he’s quite sure only two men got out of the van.”

  Jonathan finished dressing, put on a sports jacket, brushed his hair. There was no chance of getting his luggage out, but no doubt Craufurd would be able to reclaim it. He pocketed his pencil torch, glanced at his watch; Clark and Helen should be here any minute.

  “Actually, he’s quite right,” he said. “But that was Alex, with Enwright, you see. I was there already, waiting for them.”

  “Where exactly were you, sir?”

  “I was sitting behind the sea wall. I shouldn’t think this fellow Salt saw me at all.”

  The sergeant frowned. “What beats me is why Enwright should deny knowing the fellow? If they were friends.”

  “I suppose he was upset by what had happened. But I’m sure he will be able to explain.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Anders. So maybe you’d tell us how we can get in touch with him.”

  “Eh?”

  “Well, you and Mr. and Miss Bridges rushed off after him, didn’t you? He hasn’t been home.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, sergeant. We didn’t catch up with him. He’s probably in a pub, drowning his sorrows. Oops, that’s not a very good joke, is it?”

  “Not very,” agreed the sergeant. “Our pubs don’t open on Sundays, in Guernsey.” He closed his notebook. “You’ll be staying here a while longer, I hope?”

  “I’m booked in for a fortnight.”

  “So Mrs. Constant told me. There’ll be an inquest, you see, and we’ll need you to give evidence.” He opened the bedroom door. “You know, Mr. Anders, you could almost say that boat had a jinx on her. She’s done for twelve men, now. That’s more unnatural deaths in one week than we normally have in a year, here in Guernsey. You weren’t diving to her because she was Russian, by any chance?”

  “Maybe that made it more interesting. But it just seemed like a good idea, really. It doesn’t any more.” In the yard the Mini’s horn sounded twice.

  “You won’t be diving to her again, then?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Jonathan said. “I’ll give you my word on that.”

  “A very wise decision,” said Sergeant Miller. “I’m just coming, Mrs. Constant.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt, sergeant. But there’s a telephone call for you. You can take it at the desk.”

  “Oh, thanks, Mrs. Constant. I’ll see you again, Mr. Anders.” The sergeant ran down the steps.

  “Nasty business,” Mrs. Constant remarked.

  “I’m afraid it is,” Jonathan agreed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “I told you it we
ren’t worth diving to, that wreck. I’m surprised Ted took you out.”

  “You recommended him.”

  “Felt you’d be safe with him, I did. It’s not good for business, you know, having the police in here, questioning my guests.”

  “The sergeant didn’t actually arrest me,” Jonathan pointed out.

  Mrs. Constant gave him a cold stare. “That’s right, he didn’t, did he? It’s five past seven. Dinner’s just started. You want to hurry.”

  “I’m afraid I have to go out, Mrs. Constant. Some people are waiting for me.”

  “You are a live wire, Mr. Anders. It beats me why you took all-in terms. Bed and breakfast, that’s what you wanted. I suppose you will be in for breakfast?”

  “If you’re lucky, Mrs. Constant. And it had better be a big one.” He ran down the stairs.

  Clark Bridges stood in the front doorway. “Come on, old son,” he said. “Time’s passing, and I’ve got the seats.”

  Mrs. Constant sniffed. “Eating out, are you, Mr. Anders. You can entertain your friends to dinner here, you know.”

  “Oh, Mr. Anders!” called Sergeant Miller. He stood behind the desk, was just replacing the telephone on its hook. “Could I have another word with you, sir?”

  Jonathan glanced at Clark, shrugged, went across to the desk. “Something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid something has come up, sir. I wonder if you’d be good enough to come down to the Station with me?”

  “Oh, I say, sergeant, couldn’t I make it tomorrow? I’m supposed to be going out.”

  “I’m afraid I must insist, sir,” the sergeant said. There was no trace of his earlier benevolence.

  Jonathan frowned. “Something to do with Enwright?”

  “Ted Enwright is dead, Mr. Anders,” Sergeant Miller said somberly. “He’s been murdered.”

  Part Two

  Scotland

  Chapter Seven

  “Murdered?” screamed Mrs. Constant. “Oh, Mr. Anders, what a thing to have done.”