Operation Destruct

by Christopher Nicole

  “She’s an escaped murderess,” Clarence explained.

  “Then get that fuzz back and let’s unload her. I want you rehearsing when Harrison gets here.”

  “I will be, I promise. You take Helen and give her a good hot bath and then lend her something to wear.”

  “She’ll have to shrink.”

  “I’ll look after the clothes,” Mrs. Bronson volunteered. “Between us we should be able to sort something out.”

  “Jonny!” Helen seized Jonathan’s arm.

  “There’s no need to panic, sweetheart,” Clarence said. “Neither of them is quite so fierce as she looks. And we’ll all get together for breakfast in half an hour. MacNeill, you’ll entertain Mr. MacLennan. And Fergie, be a good chap and don’t go spreading any more rumors.”

  “A madhouse,” Fergus said. “That’s what it is. MacNeill, is it? Well, lead on, MacNeill.”

  “And Mac, tell cook to brew up a couple of gallons of coffee,” Clarence shouted. “You come along with me, Jonny. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Help yourself,” Jonathan murmured. He followed his host into the house, found himself on a mezzanine floor surrounding a sunken living room; the parquet was littered with four polar-bear-skin rugs, the furniture was intended for lounging and was upholstered in red and gold, the fireplace was filled with blazing logs to reinforce the already oppressive central heating. The mezzanine extended right around the room, and then vanished down a corridor to the far left. The walls were hung with a variety of paintings, while the inner wall, which apparently continued down a corridor to the far left, was a solid mass of books from floor to ceiling. Jonathan found it rather a lot to take in; the heat seemed to envelop him, made him terribly aware that he had had no sleep.

  “Quite a pad, eh?” Clarence said, leading him around the mezzanine. “I always wanted to own a castle, so when ‘The Highland Beat’ sold a million I went out and bought this one. Going for a song, too. Mind you, the sheep cost a bit. But I believe in making things pay.”

  “Every time,” Jonathan agreed. It occurred to him that he was in the wrong business.

  “Mind you,” Clarence admitted. “It’s not all beer and skittles. Take Irene. She’s my manager’s secretary, you see. One of them, anyway. He’s appointed her my watchdog. Makes my life a bally misery. Early to bed, early to rise, tells me when I can have a drink and what clothes to wear. And when Harrison himself decides to drop in, life becomes one long kit inspection. The kit being me.”

  He paused in front of a series of shelves containing the complete works of Dickens, removed Bleak House, turned a handle, opened a door. “Here’s what you want. Just strip off and have a soak. I’ll find you some clothes.” He closed the door again.

  The tub was at least seven feet in diameter, and four feet deep, and was a perfect circle in the center of the black-tiled floor. When Jonathan turned the tap, water welled up from the bottom. He dropped his wet clothes on a black-tiled seat, sat in the bath, allowed the heat to rise from his thighs, gently massaged his aching shoulder. He had been on the go for so long now that slowing down was going to take a full-scale mental and physical effort. But right now he couldn’t slow down. Right now he had to accelerate.

  He reached out of the bath, looked at his watch. The time was ten minutes to seven, and it was . . . for a moment he couldn’t decide. Monday morning, of course. Only ten to seven. The train didn’t get in to Glasgow until seven, so Anna Cantelna was only now collecting her bags and preparing to continue her journey. Supposing she was going to Mallaig, there to pick up a ferry for Castlebay, she had still a lot of traveling in front of her. But at the very best he was still three hours away from Glasgow.

  At the very best. Supposing he could get out of this bath and persuade Clarence Bronson to let him have the Land Rover.

  The door opened, and Clarence came in with a bathrobe. “Irene wants to have a word.”

  Jonathan got out of the water, wrapped himself in the robe. Irene brought in a tray with three mugs of coffee. “I’d like to drown you,” she remarked without emotion. “What’s this crazy story about spies and national security?”

  “Seems your Helen has been singing like a bird,” Clarence said.

  “She’s sure upset,” Irene agreed. “If she doesn’t catch pneumonia she’ll be lucky, and she has a blister the size of my hand on her heel. She should go to bed for a week. I figure she’s delirious, but I’d still like to hear your version of what you were doing out in that blizzard.”

  Jonathan considered. “If you believe anything she said, then you must also understand I’m not talking about it.”

  “Oh, yes, you are, Mr. Anders,” Irene said. “Whether you had anything to do with it or not, there was certainly a murder in Guernsey yesterday afternoon, and when the cops went to interview a certain young man named Jonathan Anders he knocked out a detective and got away. With two accomplices, one of whom was a long-haired blonde named Helen Bridges.”

  “I plead guilty to assaulting the detective sergeant.”

  “But not to murder? Maybe you know who is the guilty party. Like in all the best thrillers.”

  “Sure I do. She was on that train we got off. She tricked us into getting off, I’m sorry to say.” He drank his coffee, felt the heat reaching through his system.

  “Either way you’re in a heap of trouble.”

  “Not if I can catch up with her. She’s going to Barra.”

  “Why’d she want to do that?” Clarence asked. “Sounds like a dead end to me.”

  “Because there is something more to this business,” Jonathan said. “I just have to get there by tonight.”

  “Which just isn’t a human possibility,” Clarence said. “Not unless you can sprout wings . . .” he gazed at Irene. “Now there’s a thought.”

  “You need your head examined, Clarrie.”

  “There’s an airfield on Barra. Northbay. That’s not much more than a hundred and fifty miles.”

  “Nearer two hundred,” she objected. “And Harrison would throw a fit at the very idea. Especially in this weather.”

  “You could work on him, sweetheart. Tell him about the publicity. Pop star aids spy catcher. I’d top the charts for the rest of the year.”

  Irene frowned at Jonathan. “So tell us about this guy MacLennan. What he has to say doesn’t exactly fit what you have to say.”

  “You’ll just have to take your pick,” Jonathan said. “He’s working with the woman we’re after. But I can’t prove that.”

  Irene glanced at Clarence.

  “Oh, I go along with Jonathan. Or with Helen, anyway.”

  “I kind of thought you would,” Irene remarked. She pulled her lip. “It sure would make a swinging headline.”

  The door opened, and MacNeill looked in. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. Clarence, but the sergeant is on his way down the drive. And he has Inspector Craig with him.”

  “Oh, boy,” Clarence said. “He’s been on the telephone to Guernsey.”

  “That figures,” Irene agreed. “Okay, Jonny, that’s your name, isn’t it? Clarence has some clothes that should fit you. Stick him down the hole, Clarrie. I’ll fetch the girl. And you can get that MacLennan character, MacNeill.”

  *

  “What’s this about a hole?” Jonathan asked, toweling himself dry.

  “It’s ideal,” Clarence said. “Nice and deep. Here, climb into that.”

  Jonathan held the kilt up to the light. “You must be joking. What is it?”

  “Clan Buchanan tartan. I bought it for a joke, yes.”

  He stepped into it, clipped it, pulled on the sweater Clarence was holding for him. “How do I look?”

  “Scots wa hae. Let’s rush.”

  They hurried along the book-lined corridor, then down a flight of stone steps into a baronial hall some thirty feet long and twenty wide. The ceiling rose another thirty feet above their heads, and the surrounding galleries were at least fifteen feet from the floor. Jonathan suddenly f
elt very small. The only furniture was a huge oaken table, in the very center of the room, but there were suits of armor against the walls, and banners hung from the balconies. It wasn’t difficult to imagine a band of roistering borderers drinking whisky in here after a successful raid into England.

  “Pretty good, eh?” Clarence said. “This is the only part of the building that we’ve restored. For a very special reason, as you’ll see.”

  “Cut the conducted tour and get cracking.” Irene hurried down the steps, followed by Mrs. Bronson and Helen, who was wrapped in a bathrobe, with a plastic shower cap on her head. The coffee had put some color in her cheeks, although she still looked terribly tired. She managed a smile. “Up the fiery cross. I’m sorry, Jonny. I was just trying to get them to help us.”

  “That’s what we’re doing,” Clarence explained. “Help me shift the table.”

  They put their shoulders to the heavy oak, and slowly moved the table aside, to reveal a trapdoor let into the old wooden floor. MacNeill and Fergus MacLennan came in from the other door; Fergus wore a pair of borrowed breeches and an old doublet. “Murdoch’s just opening the gates, Mr. Clarence,” MacNeill said. “We’d best hurry.”

  He tied a length of rope round one of the table legs, while Clarence lifted the trap. “The laird who held this castle five hundred years ago was a pretty rough customer, and he had his dungeon right under his dining room. He’d squat on the floor eating and drinking and looking down at his guests as they starved to death. The legend has it that no one who went down there ever came out again.”

  “What a charming thought.” Jonathan knelt, peered into the darkness. “How deep is it?”

  “Only twelve feet. But it goes back under the earth at the rear, so you want to tuck yourself away in there.”

  “Here goes nothing.” He sat on the edge of the aperture, took a firm grip on the rope, and climbed down. For a moment he seemed to be rushing into space, and then his feet touched the earth. Above him the whole castle resounded to the clang of the iron-bound doors being slammed.

  “You next, Helen,” Clarence said.

  “Oh, brother.” She draped her legs over the edge. “Can you see me, Jonny?”

  “Clear as day. Don’t be scared, I’ll break your fall.” She came down faster than he had anticipated, landed on his shoulders. He set her on the ground beside him.

  “You’ll never get me down there,” Fergus MacLennan declared. “Oh, no, no, no.”

  “It’s slide or be pushed, MacLennan,” Mrs. Bronson said.

  Fergus sighed, slipped over the edge. “Oh!” he shouted. “Oh . . . oh . . .”

  Jonathan caught his feet. “You be quiet or you’ll start another legend.”

  “Stay sober,” Clarence recommended, and lowered the trapdoor into place. The sudden darkness was almost tangible. The only sound above their own breath was the scrape of the table being pushed back into place.

  “Help!” Fergus shouted. “Help!”

  “Duck, Helen,” Jonathan snapped, and swung his hand. He connected with something, grappled, and pressed the little man against the wall. “I’d cheerfully wring your neck right now, and so help me, I’ll do it if you utter another sound. Helen, do you think you could burrow a bit and find that overhang Clarence was talking about?”

  “Boy, it’s dark,” she whispered. “And damp. Jonny, do you think there’ll be rats?”

  “Oh, yes, rats,” Fergus muttered. “There’s thousands of rats in these old cellars. There’s probably skeletons too. Bones. I think we’d better sing, Mr. Anders.”

  Jonathan tapped him on the side of the head. “You’re begging for it, old friend.”

  “The roof slopes, all right.” Helen’s voice came back to them in a sepulchral whisper. “We’ll have to sit, or kneel.”

  “We’re on our way. You first, Fergie.”

  “Oof,” Fergus commented. “I’ve bumped my head, Mr. Anders. There’s nothing but stars.”

  “Then get down on your hands and knees and follow one.” Jonathan crawled into Helen, who was kneeling against the inner wall. “Sorry. You okay?”

  “I guess.” Her voice trembled. “Jonny, there’s something under here. I just touched it.”

  He put his arm round her, felt the ground on the far side. “It is a bone. Well, what do you know.”

  “Bones,” Fergus wailed. “That’s all we’ll be, bones, by the time they . . .”

  “Shut up,” Jonathan said, as the sound of the table being moved again seeped down through the darkness. “And this time I mean it. Don’t even breathe, unless you have to.”

  The trapdoor was raised. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Craig,” Clarence explained, “I’ve never been down there. But you’re absolutely right. If I wanted to conceal somebody this would be the place. Would you like to have a look?”

  Twin beams of light cut down into the darkness, illuminating the floor of the pit, reaching into the shadows of the overhang, nearly to their feet. Jonathan tightened his grip on Fergus MacLennan’s throat.

  “If you say Anders and Miss Bridges are no longer here, Mr. Bronson, then I must believe you. But we’ll still require a statement. Even if you could see at a glance that they weren’t sheep stealers, you still lied about their being friends of yours.”

  “Yes. But, you see, I felt that after MacNeill had called the sergeant, he’d want to book them in any event. I felt they were my responsibility. I’d no idea they were escaped murderers or anything like that. I mean, that isn’t the sort of person you meet every day, is it? I suppose that makes me an accessory?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly, Mr. Bronson . . .” The lights went out, and the trapdoor slammed shut.

  “Brother!” Helen whispered. “I can just feel my hair turning white. And now we’ve put Clarence and his mother on the spot. I mean, the police must catch up with all of us, eventually.”

  “There’s Irene too,” Jonathan suggested.

  “Oh, her! She’ll enjoy prison. Sort of a female King Rat.”

  “She’s our best chance of getting on top of this mess,” Jonathan said. “Our priority must still be catching up with Anna Cantelna. She’s our ticket out of jail, as well as anything else. And Irene is going to see that we get a flight to Barra, as soon as the coast is clear. We’ll still be waiting for Anna when she arrives.”

  Fergus MacLennan giggled. “All this fuss,” he said. “All this enthusiasm, Mr. Anders. It’s a real shame. Because you’re licked already, even if you don’t realize it.”

  “Shut up,” Jonathan suggested.

  “You see, Mr. Anders,” Fergus said, “You’ve made the mistake of supposing that the madam and me and all of our operatives are a bunch of amateurs, like you. But we’re professionals. Compared with us, you have so much to learn you could go to school for ten years and still be in grade one.”

  “Can’t you shut him up, Jonny?” Helen begged.

  “But he could be right, you know,” Jonathan said. A nervous tic was starting up in his brain. Anna Cantelna shouldn’t have been on that train. “Anna was pretty smart in getting rid of us like that. You have to give her some credit.”

  “Well, I thought so at the time,” Helen agreed. “But you seemed so confident . . .”

  “I thought then that we’d be on our way after her in a couple of hours. But when you come to think of it, the nearest airport to Castle Bronson is probably Prestwick, and that’s a good fifty miles away. Then we have to try and get on a plane, and I’ll bet there are only about two flights a day, if that, to Northbay, at this time of the year. I imagine Anna needs just a little bit of luck to get clear away.”

  “Luck,” said Fergus disgustedly. “That’s you amateurs all over, Mr. Anders. You keep believing in luck. It gives you an excuse when you fail. But there’s no such thing as luck in this game. You want to know how Madam Cantelna goes at it? Like a game of chess. That’s what she told me. It’s not a game I play, myself, but she made it sound pretty interesting. She sat there
, after she’d met you in the corridor, and she said now, I’ll do this, and he’ll do that, and I’ll do this and he’ll do that, and she came up with the answers. There’s no luck involved.”

  “She couldn’t know we wouldn’t pick up a lift in half an hour,” Jonathan said.

  “She knew it was pretty unlikely, in this part of the country. And she only wanted an hour, Mr. Anders.” Fergus was triumphant. “Where you made your mistake was in telling her you knew she was going to Barra and that you intended to follow her there. Because she isn’t, you see.”

  “Eh?” Jonathan shouted.

  “The Russians wouldn’t risk a ship carrying what that one’s carrying entering a British harbor. Who’s to say she’d ever get out again? Wherever you got your information from, you only got half of it. She wasn’t going to Barra; she’s going to Barra Head.”

  “But that’s just a rock.”

  “Now why should that trouble Madam Cantelna, Mr. Anders? She’s not meaning to go ashore. What time do you have?”

  “Just eight.”

  “Aye. She’ll be at Renfrew Airport already, picking up the plane for Tiree. That’s the island south of Barra Head. She’ll be there by nine, and there’s a drifter waiting for her. Say it’s twenty-five miles from Tiree to Barra Head, she’ll be in position by three o’clock this afternoon at the latest. Her ship’s been off the Head since dawn. Man, these people are organized.”

  “Since dawn today?” Jonathan whispered. “So that’s why she was on the train. But I thought she wasn’t due to leave Guernsey until tonight.”

  “Did she tell you that as well, Mr. Anders? Maybe she hadn’t intended to, originally. But these people don’t take chances, you see. It didn’t matter when she left Guernsey. From dawn today her ship’s been fishing off the Head, outside the twelve-mile limit, of course, waiting for the signal that she’s left Tiree. It’ll stay there a month, if it has to. But like I said, they’ll all be away by tea-time this afternoon.”

  “Oh, brother,” Helen said. “Nobody can blame you, Jon. You’ve reduced yourself, and me, to nervous wrecks over this business. But the madam has just proved too smart for you.”