by Jack Higgins
Kennedy turned quickly, an expression of alarm on his face and Marlowe smiled contemptuously. 'For Christ's sake, Kennedy, try not to look as though you're going to wet yourself each time you see me.'
An expression of rage appeared on Kennedy's face and he pushed past Marlowe, jerked open the door and disappeared down the stairs. The fat man chuckled explosively, his great frame shaking with mirth. 'Poor Kennedy,' he said in a peculiarly light voice. 'He can't take a joke. Never could.'
Marlowe ignored him and spoke to the man behind the desk. 'Where can I find Sam Granby?'
The young man sat back, a wary expression in his eyes. 'Across the square at the undertaker's,' he said. 'He died last night.' He showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. 'I'm his nephew - Tom Granby. I'm the owner now.'
Marlowe nodded slowly. So much for Maria Magellan's hopes. 'I've got a load of stuff outside,' he said. 'Are you interested?'
Granby picked up a pencil and examined it thoughtfully. 'That depends. Who are you from?'
Marlowe tried to control his rising anger. 'You know damned well who I'm from, sonny,' he said. 'Let's stop fooling around.'
The fat man exploded into laughter again. 'That's good,' he wheezed. 'That's really very funny.'
Marlowe said coldly over his shoulder, 'Who asked you to stick your nose in?'
The face still smiled but there was a different expression in the eyes. Another chuckle shook the huge frame. 'That's even funnier. You'd better tell him, Tom.'
Granby cleared his throat and said, with obvious pleasure, 'This is my new partner - Mr O'Connor.'
Marlowe turned towards the fat man and looked him over contemptuously. 'So you're the great O'Connor?' he said at last.
O'Connor wiped his eyes with a large white handkerchief. 'And you're the bloke that knocked hell out of Kennedy yesterday.' His eyes flicked over Marlowe's massive frame and he nodded. 'I'd like to have seen that. You're a big man, son. A very big man.'
'But not so big that he can't be cut down to size,' Granby said viciously.
Marlowe turned, his left hand darting out. He grabbed Tom Granby by the shirt front and half dragged him across the desk. For a moment he looked coldly into the frightened eyes. 'The next time you cross me I'll stamp you into the ground, you worm,' he said. He released his grip and Granby fell back into his chair.
O'Connor shook his head and clicked his tongue. 'Very silly, Tom. You really asked for that.' He switched his glance back to Marlowe. 'Old man Magellan's washed up. A week from now he won't be able to pay your wages.'
Marlowe didn't even bother to reply. He turned and walked towards the door. O'Connor moved surprisingly fast for a man of his bulk. He caught him by the arm and said, 'Let's be reasonable, son. I can always use a good man.'
Marlowe looked down at the podgy hand on his sleeve and said coldly, 'Take your paw off me.' O'Connor's hand dropped as if it had been stung and Marlowe looked straight into his face. 'I wouldn't cut you down if you were hanging, you fat pig.'
The tiny blue eyes filled with malevolence. For a moment they looked steadily at each other and then O'Connor smiled. 'All right, son,' he said. 'Have it your own way.'
As Marlowe opened the door he half turned. 'One more thing, O'Connor. Try to crowd me and you'll curse the day you were born. I promise you.' He closed the door quietly and descended the stairs.
Once outside he stood on the ramp for a moment, lighting a cigarette, and considered the problem. Obviously he would have to do the round of the retail shops that Bill Johnson had done the previous day. Somehow he didn't think O'Connor would leave that loophole open for long, if he hadn't already closed it.
He walked slowly back towards the truck. As he passed the loading bay at the front of O'Connor's warehouse he noticed Kennedy standing in a doorway talking to a young girl. She wore tight denim jeans and a hip-length leather driving jacket. Her face was round and soft like a young child's and framed in hair that was almost pure white, like soft flax glinting palely in the morning sun.
Kennedy said something to her and she looked up quickly towards Marlowe. He gazed steadily at her for several seconds and then continued across the front of the building towards the truck. He looked back once and she was still staring after him.
A little way along the narrow street that ran down one side of O'Connor's warehouse, Marlowe noticed a cafe sign and market men passing in and out. He was suddenly aware that he was hungry and he turned into the street and walked towards the cafe.
There was a narrow alley at the rear of O'Connor's warehouse and as he drew abreast of it he saw a crowd standing on the corner and heard voices raised in anger. He crossed the street quickly and shouldered his way through the crowd.
There was another loading bay at the rear of the building and four men stood arguing furiously on its edge. One of them was a Negro and on the ground at his feet stood a battered, fibre suitcase tied with string. The man who was doing most of the shouting was well over six feet tall with a chest like a barrel and a mane of black curly hair. He was swearing vilely with a pronounced Irish accent and he held up a clenched fist menacingly. 'We don't like spades round here,' he said. 'They make the place smell bad. Get back to bloody Jamaica where you came from.' He lifted his boot back and kicked the man's suitcase several feet through the air until it crashed against the far wall.
The Jamaican took a step forward and his fists clenched. For a moment Marlowe hoped he was going to strike the Irishman and then his chin dropped and he relaxed. He turned to step down from the ramp and one of the other men stuck out a foot and tripped him so that he fell heavily to the ground.
The big Irishman jumped down beside him, a huge grin on his face. 'That's where you belong, nigger. In the muck,' he said.
The Jamaican was on his feet like a cat. He moved forward in one beautiful fluid motion and slammed his fist hard against the Irishman's jaw. He went down as if he had been poleaxed.
He scrambled to his feet with a roar of rage and at the same moment his two friends jumped down from the loading bay and grabbed the Negro's arms from behind. 'Go on, Blacky,' one of them cried. 'Knock hell out of him.'
The Irishman stood back for a moment, wiping blood from his mouth, and then he moved forward, a smile of pleasure on his face. Marlowe turned and said to the crowd contemptuously, 'What kind of men are you? Isn't anyone going to give the bloke a hand?'
An old man in a battered corduroy cap and greasy raincoat turned to him. 'You must be new around here. It doesn't pay to interfere with Blacky Monaghan.'
There was a street cleaner's cart standing nearby with a brush and spade inside it. Marlowe picked up the spade and moved down the alley towards the four men.
As he approached, Monaghan turned towards him, surprise on his face. 'What the hell do you want?' he demanded truculently.
Marlowe ignored him. He hefted the spade in his right hand and spoke to the two men who were holding the Jamaican. They were looking at the spade, complete unbelief on their faces, and he said calmly, 'If you two don't get to hell out of here I'll break your arms.'
He swung the spade once through the air. The two thugs jumped back, horror on their faces. They released the Jamaican and scrambled up on to the loading bay.
The Negro smiled, showing even white teeth. 'Thanks a lot, friend,' he said in a soft, Jamaican voice. 'I'll remember that.'
Monaghan stood with his back against the wall, mouthing obscenities. 'I'll catch you without that spade, bucko, one of these dark nights,' he snarled. 'It'll be my turn then.'
Marlowe ignored him. He stood back against the loading bay, still gripping the spade, and smiled at the Negro. 'It's your turn now, pal.'
A grin of unholy joy crossed the Jamaican's face and he moved towards Monaghan. The Irishman spat and doubled his fists and a quiet voice said, 'Now then, what are you trying to do? Turn Barford into a frontier town?'
Marlowe turned his head quickly. The crowd at the end of the alley had melted away and a quiet, middle-aged man was approachin
g them. He wore a brown gaberdine raincoat and an old blue felt hat. A greying, tobacco-stained moustache added the finishing touch to a sad, spaniel face.
The Jamaican moved quickly to Marlowe's shoulder and whispered, 'Watch yourself. This one's a copper.'
Very carefully Marlowe slipped his right hand behind him and propped the spade up against the wall. He wasn't quite quick enough. The moustache twitched and a humorous expression appeared in the eyes. 'What are you going to do with that, son?' the policeman demanded. 'Plant your rose trees?'
Marlowe grinned amiably. 'How did you guess?'
The moustache twitched again and the policeman turned to Monaghan and said calmly, 'Get out of it you, before I run you in.'
Blackie glared and his mouth half opened as if he was about to speak and then he scrambled up on to the loading bay and disappeared into the warehouse.
The policeman turned to the Jamaican and said, 'Now then, Mac, what started it?'
The Jamaican shrugged. 'Oh, the usual thing, Mr Alpin. They just don't like having me around I guess.'
Alpin nodded soberly and turned his eye speculatively on Marlowe. 'What's your name, son? Where do you fit into this?'
Marlowe shrugged. 'There were three of them working him over. I just stepped in to see fair play. I drive a truck for Mr Magellan, of Litton. Marlowe's my name.'
Alpin nodded towards the spade. 'You certainly believe in shock tactics, don't you.' He shook his head. 'That's the way to end up in the dock on a capital charge.'
The Jamaican picked up his suitcase and they all walked towards the end of the alley. Alpin said, 'What are you going to do now, Mac?'
The Negro shook his head. 'I don't know, Mr Alpin. Maybe I'll try London again. It's hard enough for a white man to get a job in a rural area.'
Alpin nodded. 'Well, I hope you make out all right.' He produced a patent inhaler, inserted it in one nostril and sniffed deeply. 'That's better,' he observed. 'Damned hay fever again.' He blew his nose loudly into a khaki handkerchief and said, 'Well, I've got to be off. If I can do anything for you, Mac, don't hesitate to get in touch.' He nodded to Marlowe. 'Give my regards to Papa Magellan and tell him I was asking after him.' He started to move away and then he paused and added, 'And you keep out of Blacky Monaghan's way, especially on dark nights, and keep away from spades.' He turned without waiting for a reply and walked down towards the square, his raincoat flapping about his legs in the slight breeze.
The Jamaican said quietly, 'He's a good man. It's a pity there aren't more like him.' He sighed deeply and then turned with a smile and held out his hand. 'I haven't thanked you yet, friend. My name's Mackenzie - Henry Mackenzie. Most people just call me Mac.'
Marlowe grasped the proffered hand. 'Hugh Marlowe,' he said. He nodded towards the cafe. 'I was just going in for a coffee. How about joining me?'
Mac nodded and picked up his suitcase and they crossed the road and entered the cafe. The place was crowded, but they managed to find a small table by the window and Marlowe brought two coffees from the counter. He offered the Jamaican a cigarette. 'That was one hell of a smack on the jaw you gave Monaghan. You looked as if you knew how to use yourself.'
Mac grinned. 'I should do. I -came over here as a professional boxer.'
'Do any good?' Marlowe asked.
The Jamaican shrugged. 'I was going great there for a year or two until the night I got in a clinch on the ropes with a guy and fell through. I fractured my foot.' He sighed. 'They managed to fix it, but when I started training again I found I was only good for one fast round before the pain started.'
'That's pretty rough luck,' Marlowe said.
The Jamaican grinned and sat back in his chair. 'Don't think I'm crying in my beer, man. Life's just a big wheel going round. Now I'm down, next time I go up.' He spread his hands. 'It's the law of nature.'
Marlowe grinned and nodded. 'Maybe you've got something there,' he said. 'What were you doing for O'Connor?'
Mac shrugged. 'Anything that came to hand, packing fruit, making up loads. He took me on as a truck driver.'
'What did you think of him?' Marlowe said.
The smile faded from the Jamaican's face. 'I didn't like him. They're a bad lot over there. If it hadn't been for Miss Jenny I'd have left long ago. She was the only one that treated me decent.'
'And who's Miss Jenny?' Marlowe asked him.
'O'Connor's niece,' Mac said. 'She's like a flower on a dung heap over there.' He laughed shortly and added, 'One good thing. There isn't a man in that crowd who'd dare to lay a finger on her. O'Connor would sure have his scalp.' He glanced across at a clock on the wall. 'I guess I'd better be moving. There's a train for London in twenty minutes.'
Marlowe reached across and pulled him back down into his seat. 'Why go to London?' he said. 'I can get you a job right here.'
Mac frowned. 'You mean that, friend? What kind of a job?'
Marlowe pushed his cigarettes across. 'Truck driving, but I warn you. It might get a little rough. I work for a man called Magellan, in Litton. O'Connor is trying to put him out of business.'
'O'Connor put quite a few people out of business. How are you going to stop him doing the same thing to you?'
Marlowe held up a clenched fist. 'There are ways,' he said. 'There are ways.'
A slow smile appeared on the Jamaican's face. He held out his hand. 'Mr Marlowe, it'll be a pleasure working with you.'
'Right,' Marlowe said in satisfaction. 'Let's get out of here.'
They left the cafe and went down the street and back into the square. Men were still working busily on every side and when they reached the truck Marlowe said, 'Climb in. You do the driving. We'll go back to Litton and I'll introduce you to Papa Magellan.'
Suddenly he was aware of a hand on his arm. He turned and looked down into the blue eyes of the girl with the flaxen hair. They looked at each other without speaking for a brief moment and he was conscious of a sudden dryness in his throat and a crawling sensation in the pit of his stomach. 'Mr Marlowe?' she said.
He nodded and cleared his throat. 'That's me. What can I do for you?'
'I'm Jenny O'Connor,' she said, 'Mr O'Connor's niece.'
Mac leaned out of the cab and said, 'Hallo, Miss Jenny.'
She glanced up and there was pain on her face. 'I heard what happened. I'm really sorry, Mac. What are you going to do?'
He smiled. 'I'll make out, Miss Jenny. I'm going to work for Mr Magellan, at Litton.'
Her eyes clouded over and she turned to Marlowe and there was urgency in her voice. 'But that makes it even worse. Please, Mr Marlowe, you must go away. Believe me, I know my uncle. He can't bear to be crossed. He'll stop at nothing to put Mr Magellan out of business. Any outsider who gets involved will only end up by getting hurt.'
Marlowe shook his head. 'No man can play God forever and expect to get away with it, Miss O'Connor.'
'But he'll break you,' she said desperately. 'I've seen him do it to other people.'
'I don't break easily,' Marlowe told her. For a moment it seemed as if she would speak again and then her shoulders drooped and she turned away. 'Thanks for the warning, anyway,' Marlowe said.
He stood watching her as she walked back to the warehouse and went inside. He climbed up into the cab beside Mac and said, 'Well, now we know where we stand. Let's go, boy.'
As they moved away Marlowe turned his head and looked back towards the warehouse in time to see Kennedy, Monaghan and O'Connor emerge from the interior and stand on the ramp gazing after them. For a brief moment he had them in view and then Mac turned the truck into the main road and they roared out of the town, back towards Litton.
5
Marlowe was sitting on the end of Papa Magellan's bed. It was just after nine o'clock and the old man was finishing a hearty breakfast that Maria had brought to him on a tray. A light drift of rain pattered against the window and Magellan cursed and said, 'More rain, more rheumatism. It's a vicious circle and the whole damned winter still to come.'
&
nbsp; Marlowe grinned sympathetically. 'Never mind, Papa,' he said. 'A couple of days in bed will do you a power of good.'
Magellan snorted. 'Nothing doing. That's what Maria thinks I need, but there's work to do and I'm the only one who can do it. This afternoon I've got to go round the market gardeners picking up produce and seeing how the land lies. Who knows what O'Connor is getting up to while I'm lying here in idleness.'
The door opened and Maria came in with a coffee pot and some cups on a tray. She filled two cups, gave one to her father and the other to Marlowe. 'How's Mac managing?' he asked her.
'Oh, fine,' she said. 'He helped me to put a spare bed in your room and I've left him unpacking.'
'What do you think of him?' Marlowe said.
'He's a good boy,' Papa Magellan cut in. 'I can always tell. He's got a good heart, that one.'
Maria nodded. 'I agree with Papa. He's a fine man. I trust him. I felt it the moment I looked at him. He's not the kind who would ever let you down.'
For a moment a feeling that was suspiciously like jealousy moved in Marlowe. He gave her a twisted grin and said, 'Not like me at all.'
An expression of pain appeared on her face. 'Please, I didn't mean it to sound like that.'
He held up a hand. 'It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all.' When he turned to Papa Magellan he saw to his surprise, that the old man had a sly smile on his face. 'I'll take that load round the shops now, Papa,' Marlowe told him. 'Put Mac on the coal delivery run. As soon as I get back, I'll give him a hand.'
'Maybe I should get up and go round with the boy myself,' Papa Magellan said. 'He may find it a little strange at first.'
'You'll do nothing of the kind,' Maria said firmly. 'You can stay in bed and do as you're told for a change.'
'But Maria, there's work to be done,' the old man protested.
Marlowe shook his head and grinned. 'I'll leave you two to argue it out.' He grinned at the old man. 'Might as well give in, Papa. She can be pretty determined when she wants to be.' He closed the door quickly as the argument flared up again and went along to his bedroom.
