The Thousand Faces of Night (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  She turned her head unexpectedly at one point and caught him looking at her. She smiled. 'You're a pretty big man, Mr Marlowe. How tall are you?'

  Marlowe shrugged. 'I'm not sure. Around six-three, I think.'

  She nodded, her eyes travelling over his massive frame. 'What kind of work are you looking for?'

  He shrugged. 'Anything I can get, but driving is what I do best.'

  There was a gleam of interest in her eyes. 'What kind of driving?'

  'Any kind,' he said. 'Anything on wheels. I've driven the lot, from light vans to tank-transporters.'

  'So! You were in the Army?' she said and her interest seemed to become even more pronounced.

  Marlowe flicked his cigarette into the rain-filled gutter. 'Yes, I think you could say I was in the Army,' he said and there was a deadness in his voice.

  She seemed to sense the change of mood and lapsed into silence. Marlowe walked moodily along beside her trying to think of something to say, but it was not necessary. They turned into a narrow lane and came to a five-barred gate which was standing open. She paused and said, 'Here we are.'

  A gravel drive disappeared into the fog in front of them and Marlowe could make out the dim shape of a house. 'It looks like a pretty big place,' he said.

  She nodded. 'It used to be a farmhouse. Now there's just a few acres of land. We run it as a market garden and fruit farm.'

  He looked up into the rain. 'This kind of weather won't be doing you much good.'

  She laughed. 'We haven't done too badly. We got nearly all the apples in last week and most of our other produce is under glass.'

  A gust of wind lifted across the farmyard, rolling the fog in front of it, and exposed the house. It was an old, grey stone building, firmly rooted into the ground and weathered by the years. On one side of the yard there were several outbuildings and on the other, a large, red-roofed barn.

  The front door was protected by an old-fashioned glass porch and outside it a small yellow van was parked. INTER-ALLIED TRADING CORPORATION - BARFORD, was printed on its side in neat black letters. Maria Magellan paused abruptly and there was something like fear on her face. She darted forward and entered the house.

  Marlowe followed more slowly. He ducked slightly under the low lintel of the door and found himself in a wide, stone-flagged hall. The girl was standing outside a door on the left through which angry voices could be heard. She flung the door open and entered the room and Marlowe waited in the hall, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and watched.

  Inside the room two men faced each other across a table. One of them was old with grizzled hair and a white moustache that stood out clearly against swarthy skin that was the colour of tanned leather.

  The other was a much younger man, powerfully built with good shoulders. His face was twisted menacingly as he said, 'Listen you old fool. Either you come in with us or you go out of business. That's Mr O'Connor's last word.'

  The old man's eyes darted fire and he slammed a hand hard against the table. His English was good but with a heavy accent and his voice was trembling with rage. 'Listen, Kennedy. You tell O'Connor this from me. Before he puts me out of business I put a knife into him. On my life I promise it.'

  Kennedy laughed contemptuously. 'You bloody old fool,' he said. 'Mr O'Connor can stamp you into the dirt any time he wants. You're small stuff, Magellan.'

  The old man gave a roar of anger and moved fast around the table. He swung hard with his right fist, but the years were against him. Kennedy blocked the punch with ease. He grabbed the old man by the shirt and started to beat him across the face with the flat of his hand. The girl screamed and ran forward, tearing at Kennedy with her fingers. He pushed her away with such force that she staggered across the room and lost her balance.

  A cold rage flared in Marlowe and he moved forward into the room. Kennedy raised his hand to strike the old man again and Marlowe grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him round so that they faced each other. 'How about trying me?' he said. 'I'm a bit nearer your size.'

  Kennedy opened his mouth to speak and Marlowe smashed a fist into it. The tremendous force of the blow hurled Kennedy across the table. He gave a terrible groan and pulled himself up from the floor. Marlowe moved quickly around the table and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. 'You bastard!' he said. 'You dirty, lousy bastard.'

  And then a mist came before his eyes and it wasn't Kennedy's face that he saw before him. It was another face. One that he hated with all his being and he began to beat Kennedy methodically, backwards and forwards across the face, with his right hand.

  The girl screamed again, high and clear, 'No, Marlowe! No - you'll kill him!'

  She was tugging at his arm, pleading frantically with him, and Marlowe stopped. He stood for a moment staring stupidly at Kennedy, fist raised, and then he gently pushed him back against the table.

  He was trembling slightly and there was still that slight haze before his eyes, almost as if some of the fog had got into the room. He clenched his fists to try and steady the trembling and noticed that blood was trickling down his left sleeve again.

  The girl released her hold on him. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I had to stop you. You would have killed him.'

  Marlowe nodded slowly and passed a hand across his face. 'You did right. Sometimes I don't know when to stop and this rat isn't worth hanging for.'

  He moved suddenly and grabbing Kennedy by the collar, propelled him roughly out of the room and into the hall. He pushed him through the porch and flung him against the van. 'If you've got any sense you'll get out of here while you've got a whole skin,' he said. I'll give you just five minutes to gather your wits.'

  Kennedy was already fumbling for the handle of the van door as Marlowe turned and went back into the house.

  3

  When he went into the room there was no sign of Maria, but her father was busy at the sideboard with a bottle and a couple of glasses. His face split into a wide grin and he walked quickly across and handed Marlowe a glass. 'Brandy - the best in the house. I feel like a young man again.'

  Marlowe swallowed the brandy gratefully and nodded towards the window as the engine of the van roared into life. 'That's the last you'll see of him.'

  The old man shrugged and an ugly look came into his eyes. 'Who knows? Next time I'll be prepared. I'll stick a knife into his belly and argue afterwards.'

  Maria came into the room, a basin of hot water in one hand and bandages and a towel in the other. She still looked white and shaken, but she managed a smile as she set the bowl down on the table. 'I'll have a look at that arm now,' she said.

  Marlowe removed his raincoat and jacket and she gently sponged away congealed blood and pursed her lips. 'It doesn't look too good.' She shook her head and turned to her father. 'What do you think, Papa?'

  Papa Magellan looked carefully at the wound and a sudden light flickered in his eyes. 'Pretty nasty. How did you say you got it, boy?'

  Marlowe shrugged. 'Ripped it on a spike getting off a truck. I've been hitching my way from London.'

  The old man nodded. 'A spike, eh?' A light smile touched his mouth. 'I don't think we need bother the doctor, Maria. Clean it up and bandage it well. It'll be fine inside a week.'

  Maria still looked dubious and Marlowe said, 'He's right. You women make a fuss about every little scratch.' He laughed and fished for a cigarette with his right hand. 'I walked a hundred and fifty miles in Korea with a bullet in my thigh. I had to. There was no one available to take it out.'

  She scowled and quick fury danced in her eyes. 'All right. We don't get the doctor. Have it your own way. I hope your arm poisons and falls off.'

  He chuckled and she bent her head and went to work. Papa Magellan said, 'You were in Korea?' Marlowe nodded and the old man went over to the sideboard and came back with a framed photo. 'My son, Pedro,' he said.

  The boy smiled stiffly out of the photo, proud and self-conscious of the new uniform. It was the sort of picture every recruit has taken during his fir
st few weeks of basic training. 'He looks like a good boy,' Marlowe remarked in a non-committal voice.

  Papa Magellan nodded vigorously. 'He was a fine boy. He was going to go to Agricultural College. Always wanted to be a farmer.' The old man sighed heavily. 'He was killed in a patrol action near the Imjin River in 1953.'

  Marlowe examined the photo again and wondered if Pedro Magellan had been smiling like that when the bullets smashed into him. But it was no use thinking about that because men in war died in so many different ways. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always scared, with fear biting into their faces.

  He grunted and handed back the photograph. 'That was a little after my time. I was captured in the early days when the Chinese took a hand.'

  Maria looked up quickly. 'How long were you a prisoner?'

  'About three years,' Marlowe told her.

  The old man whistled softly. 'Holy Mother, that's a long time. You must have had it rough. I hear those Chinese camps were pretty tough.'

  Marlowe shrugged. 'I wouldn't know. I wasn't in a camp. They put me to work in a coal mine in Manchuria.'

  Magellan's eyes narrowed and all humour left his face. 'I've heard a little about those places also.' There was a short silence and then he grinned and clapped Marlowe on the shoulder. 'Still, all this is in the past. Maybe it's a good thing for a man, like going through fire. A sort of purification.'

  Marlowe laughed harshly. 'That sort of purification I can do without.'

  As Maria pressed plaster over the loose ends of the bandage she said quietly, 'Papa has had a little of that kind of fire in his time. He was in the International Brigade in Spain. The Fascists held him in prison for two years.'

  The old man shrugged expressively and raised a hand in protest. 'Why speak of these things? They are dead. Ancient history. We are living in the present. Life is often unpleasant and always unfair. A wise man puts it all down to experience and does the best he can.'

  He stood, hands in pockets, smiling at them and Maria said, 'There, it is finished.'

  Marlowe stood up and began to turn down the tattered remnants of his shirt sleeve. 'I'd better be going,' he said. 'What time did you say that bus left?'

  A frown replaced the smile on Magellan's face. 'Going? Where are you going?'

  'Birmingham,' Marlowe told him. 'I'm hoping to get a job there.'

  'So you go to Birmingham tomorrow,' the old man said. 'Tonight you stay here. In such weather to refuse shelter to a dog would be a crime. What kind of a man do you think I am? You appear from the fog, save me from a beating, and then expect me to let you disappear just like that?' He snorted. 'Maria, run a hot bath for him and I will see if I can find a clean shirt.'

  Marlowe hesitated. Every instinct told him to go. To leave now before he became further involved with these people; and he looked at Maria. She smiled and shook her head. 'It's no use, Mr Marlowe. When Papa decides on something the only thing to do is agree. It saves time in the long run.'

  He looked out of the window at the gloom outside and thought about that bath and a meal and made his decision. 'I give in,' he said. 'Unconditional surrender.'

  She smiled and went out of the room. The old man produced a briar pipe and filled it from a worn leather pouch. 'Maria told me a little about you when you were outside with Kennedy,' he said. 'She tells me you're a truck driver.'

  Marlowe shrugged. 'I have been.'

  Magellan puffed patiently at his pipe until it was drawing properly. 'That slash on your arm,' he said. 'How did you say you got it?'

  'From a broken hook in the tailboard of a truck,' Marlowe told him. 'Why?'

  The old man shrugged. 'Oh, nothing,' he said carefully, 'except that I had a very active youth and I know a knife wound when I see one.'

  Marlowe stiffened, anger moving inside him. He clenched a fist and took a step forward and the old man produced a battered silver cigarette case and flicked it open. 'Have a cigarette, son,' he said calmly. 'They soothe the nerves.'

  Marlowe sighed deeply and unclenched his fist. 'Your eyes are too good, Papa. One of these days they're going to get you into trouble.'

  The old man shrugged. 'I've been in trouble before.' He held out a match in cupped hands. 'How about you, son?'

  Marlowe looked into the wise, humorous face and liked what he saw. 'Nothing I couldn't handle, Papa.'

  The old man's eyes roved briefly over his massive frame. 'I can imagine. It would take a good man to put you down, but there's another kind of trouble that isn't so easy to handle.'

  Marlowe raised an eyebrow. 'The law?' He smiled and shook his head. 'Don't worry, Papa. They won't come knocking at your door tonight.' He raised his arm. 'I can explain this. I was asleep in the back of a truck. Woke up to find some bloke going through my pockets. He pulled a knife and ripped my sleeve. I smacked his jaw and dropped off the truck. That's how I arrived here.'

  Magellan threw back his head and laughed. 'Heh, I bet that fella doesn't wake up till the truck gets to Newcastle.'

  Marlowe sat down in a chair and laughed with him. He felt easier now and safer. 'It's a good job we were near here,' he said. 'I didn't even know Litton was on the map.'

  Magellan nodded. 'It's a quiet little place. Only seven or eight hundred people live around here.'

  Marlowe grinned. 'Seems to me it's getting pretty lively for a quiet little place. What about the character I tossed out on his ear?'

  The old man frowned. 'Kennedy? He was working for me until a few days ago as a driver. Now he's with Inter-Allied Trading.'

  Marlowe nodded. 'I noticed the fancy yellow van when I came in. Who's this bloke O'Connor? The big boss?'

  The old man snorted and fire glinted in his eyes. 'He likes to think he is, but I remember him when he was small. Very small. He had an old truck and did general haulage work. The war was the making of him. He wasn't too fussy about what he carried and always seemed to be able to get plenty of petrol when other people couldn't. Now he has twenty or thirty trucks.'

  'And doesn't like competition,' Marlowe said. 'What's he trying to do? Put you out of business?'

  'He offered to buy me out, but I told him I wasn't interested. The smallholding on its own isn't enough to give us a good living. I have three Bedford trucks as well. Once a month we deliver coal round the village and the outlying farms. The rest of the time we do general haulage work. I've formed a little co-operative between seven or eight market gardeners near here. They're all in a pretty small way. Together we can make it pay by using my trucks for transportation and selling in bulk.'

  Marlowe was beginning to get interested. 'Even so, there can't be a fortune in that, Papa,' he said. 'What's O'Connor after?'

  The old man hastened to explain. 'It isn't the haulage work he's interested in. It's the produce itself. You see about eighteen months ago he took over a large fruit-and-vegetable wholesalers in Barford Market. Since then he's bought out another and purchased a controlling interest in two more. Now he virtually controls prices. If you want to sell, you sell through him.'

  Marlowe whistled softly. 'Very neat, and legal too. What's he got against you?'

  The old man shrugged. 'He doesn't like my little cooperative. He prefers to deal with all the small men individually. That way he can get the stuff at rock-bottom prices and re-sell in Birmingham and other large cities at an enormous profit.'

  'Hasn't anybody tried to stand up to him?' Marlowe asked.

  Magellan nodded. 'Naturally, but O'Connor is a powerful man and Barford is a very small town. He can exert influence in many ways. Besides his more subtle methods there are others. A gang of young hooligans started a fight the other day in the crowded market and a stall was wrecked in the process. Of course, O'Connor knew nothing about it, but the stallholder now toes the line.'

  'What about Kennedy?' Marlowe said. 'Where does he fit in?'

  The old man's face darkened. 'He worked for me for nearly six months. I never liked him, but good drivers are scarce in a place like this. One day last week h
e told me he was leaving. I offered him a little more money if he would stay, but he laughed in my face. Said he could double it working for O'Connor.' He sighed deeply. 'I think O'Connor is beginning to think he's God in these parts. It's difficult to know what to do.'

  'I suppose it hasn't occurred to anybody to kick his bloody teeth in,' Marlowe said.

  Papa Magellan smiled softly. 'Oh, yes, my friend. Even that has passed through my mind, but O'Connor's business has many ramifications these days. He has imported some peculiar individuals to work for him. Anything but country-bred.'

  'Sounds interesting,' Marlowe said, 'but even that kind can be handled.' He stood up and stretched, and walked a few paces across the room. 'How are you going to fight him?'

  Magellan smiled. 'I've already started. My other driver is a young fellow called Bill Johnson, who lives in the village. O'Connor offered him a good job at better money. Bill told him to go to hell. I've sent him into Barford today with a truck-load of fruit and vegetables. He's making the rounds of all the retail shops, offering to sell to them direct.'

  'And you think that will work?'

  Magellan shrugged. 'I don't see why not. Even O'Connor can't control everybody. He certainly can't intimidate every shopkeeper in Barford and district.'

  Marlowe shook his head slowly. 'I don't know, Papa. It's a little too simple.'

  The old man jumped up impatiently. 'It's got to work. He isn't God. He can't control everybody.'

  'He can have a damn good try,' Marlowe said.

  For a moment it seemed as if Magellan was going to explode with anger. He glared, eyes flashing, and then turned abruptly and went over to the fireplace. He stood looking down into the flames, shoulders heaving with suppressed passion, and Marlowe helped himself to another brandy.

  After a while the old man spoke without turning round. 'It's a funny world. After the Spanish war when I returned home to Portugal, I found I was an embarrassment to the government. Franco was able to touch me even there. So I came to England. Now, after all these years, I find he can still touch me. Franco - O'Connor. There isn't any difference. It's the same pattern.'