by J F Straker
‘How do we go?’ he asked. ‘By train?’
‘In the Alvis. Trains are out. We shall need transport when we get there.’
‘You wouldn’t rather we took the Jag?’
‘No.’ David knew that his blunt refusal was stupid, but he could not help it. The implied slight to his beloved Alvis was too great. ‘For one thing, I’m used to the Alvis and I’ve never driven a Jag. For another...’ But he could not think of another, and he ended lamely, ‘What’s wrong with the Alvis, anyhow?’
‘Nothing, dear boy. Don’t think I’m trying to crab your lovely motor-car. It’s just that I feel she isn’t quite me.’ Paul hesitated. ‘What say we take them both? It would make it easier for me to get to Exeter on Wednesday.’
‘O.K., we’ll take them both.’ It was the only compromise David’s stubborn pride in possession would permit. ‘I’ll ring my uncle to-night and book you a room.’
‘And one for my man, dear boy. You’re not expecting trouble on the way down, are you? Not that I’d be much of a bodyguard.’
‘I’m not expecting trouble at all,’ David said. ‘It’s diplomacy we’ll be needing, I hope, not brute force. I’ve had a bellyful of that this end.’
‘Oh? How come?’
David told him. When he mentioned the telephone call Susan had received Paul said, ‘They get around, don’t they?
‘But to threaten Susan — oh, very vulgar.’
After a momentary hesitation he added, ‘As a matter of fact they did one on me. I was advised, not very politely, that whither thou went I should not go. Or else!’
David was startled. He was also worried; he had never anticipated the gunman would spread his net so wide. But when, after sincere apologies, he suggested that Paul might prefer to forget about Cornwall, his friend strongly negatived the suggestion. ‘No one tells me what I may or may not do,’ he said.
The steely edge to his voice took David back ten years. Suddenly he felt estranged and diffident. ‘I’m ringing Morgan to let him know about Susan,’ he said. ‘He may like to keep an eye on her. Do I mention you?’
‘Heaven forbid!’ The languor was back. ‘The prospect of a large bluebottle buzzing around my doorstep fills me with gloom. Besides, I shan’t be here.’
David rang Morgan at his home. Like David, the superintendent did not attach great importance to the threat against Susan, but he promised to keep an eye on her. Any lead, no matter how slim, that might conceivably lead him to Bandy was worth considering.
‘This chap who tried to stick you,’ he said. ‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not intimately. It was dark, and once I’d collared the brute he had his back to me. On the short side —about five foot seven —slim and wiry, and fast on his feet. Not well up in murder, I’d say. He wasn’t so hot with the knife.’
‘Don’t count on that,’ Morgan said. ‘He may be more successful next time. And unless you’re smart there’ll certainly be a next time. Apparently you’ve reached the point where you’re safer dead. Safer for him, that is.’
‘It’s an encouraging thought.’
‘Isn’t it? So stop playing the fool and tell me what you’ve been up to. They don’t knife people for nothing. Not even journalists. You must have stumbled on to something. What is it?’
David thought that ‘stumbled’ was unkind. Yet it was largely true. He had stumbled on the diary, he had stumbled on Lumsden and Wilhelmina. If the police had had his luck, would they have been smarter? Perhaps. Even now, if he were to give them the facts, they would probably beat him to it. They had too many facilities for him to compete.
That, David decided, was unthinkable. He had risked too much to play second fiddle now.
He said blandly, ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve been ferreting around and talking to a lot of people, but it doesn’t seem to have got me far. If Bandy believes otherwise, then maybe I’ve been warm without knowing it.’
Morgan grunted. ‘Maybe. And maybe you’ll be warmer still. Now I’ve news for you. We’ve found Nora Winstone.’
‘Oh!’
It seemed to David that the bottom had dropped out of his world. With Nora Winstone safe under police protection the urgency of his quest had gone. After what she must have suffered at the hands of Bandy and his gang, Nora would have lost her reluctance to talk. And once Morgan had the names of his missing witnesses it would not take him long to find them.
‘That’s great,’ he said, trying to force enthusiasm into his voice. ‘How is she? Have you been able to get anything out of her?’
‘Only a bullet,’ Morgan told him. ‘She’s dead.’
12
David finished his packing in a state of rare anger. Five days ago Nora Winstone had meant nothing to him; he had spent just one evening in her company, and had been mildly relieved when it came to an end. Yet since then she had become something of a symbol in his life. He was not sure what the symbol represented — courage, tenacity, loneliness —but it was there, and he had lived with it. In many ways it had made Nora more real, more familiar, than the two people he was seeking.
And now she was dead.
Her death had more than an emotional significance for him. It meant that Bandy no longer needed her, that either with or without her aid he had discovered the identities of the other two witnesses. It meant that David and the gunman were now in direct opposition, which was why, as Morgan had suggested, Bandy had now decided to be rid of him. That decision had been only too clearly demonstrated. Yet there was also a mystery behind it. Bandy might know the identities of the people he was seeking, but how could he know where they had gone? Even had one of his men managed to penetrate to Lumsden’s room — and according to the woman he had not — Lumsden’s water-colours could not have held the significance for him that they had held for David. So why, after trailing him assiduously (if not very skilfully) for several days, should they seek to eliminate him at the moment when he might unwittingly lead them to the consummation of their search?
There were two possible answers to that question. Either they believed that David was as ignorant as themselves of the Lumsdens’ whereabouts, but an interfering menace none the less, or they did not need him to lead them because, from some source with which he was unacquainted, they already knew where they were going.
David hoped fervently that the former answer was the correct one.
The news of Nora’s death had so shattered him that he had forgotten to tell Morgan of Winstone’s visit that evening. Perhaps it was as well; it had spared him the lash of Morgan’s tongue, and it was no longer important. But one thing was clear. According to the superintendent, Nora had been dead less than twenty-four hours when they found her. Winstone, then, had been telling the truth when he had said that Nora was alive. The blood that had soaked into the carpet of the abandoned Zodiac remained a mystery, but it had not been Nora’s.
He was up early the next morning. It had rained heavily during the night, and a thin drizzle was still falling when he went out to the Alvis. He did not anticipate danger at that hour, but he was taking no chances. Opening the front door, he peered cautiously out into the street.
A man stood by the Alvis — a man in a long black raincoat and with a cap pulled over his forehead. He had his back to the house. David was about to retreat into the flat for further observation when he saw the dark woolly hair above the collar, and hesitated. And while he hesitated the man turned.
It was Winstone. He saw David and came eagerly up the steps to meet him.
‘You going now?’ he asked. ‘Let me come with you, man. Please!’
David shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. It just isn’t on.’ He motioned the other into the house. ‘But come in for a minute. It’s damp out here.’
The black raincoat glistened, the cap was soaking; water dripped on to the carpet. Winstone took a coloured hand-kerchief from the pocket of his jeans and mopped his face. He said, ‘I not been home last night. There was a guy watching the house, and I don’t want him following
me this morning. Barney give me a bed.’
David did not inquire into Barney’s identity. It did not concern him. He said, ‘Is that why you want to come with me? To get away from trouble?’
Winstone looked at him. His gaze was expressionless. ‘They kill Nora,’ he said. ‘I see it in the papers.’
‘I know,’ David said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Winstone walked over to the window and stood looking out at the rain, hands sunk in his raincoat pockets. The bulky garment gave him an appearance of breadth, and as David took a last look round the room he paused to consider him. He no longer doubted the man’s honesty of purpose. The lie about marriage had been excusable; everything else Winstone had told him had been proved true. In Cornwall there would be Paul; but after last night’s attempt at murder it was possible that the journey itself might be hazardous, and on the journey he would be alone. Winstone had good cause to hate Bandy. How he would react to danger was problematical, but if he fought at all at least he would fight on the right side.
If only the man were not what he was a West Indian, a self-confessed crook, and almost an illiterate — David would not have hesitated. Even so he did not hesitate for long. As he struggled into his raincoat he said shortly, ‘O.K., you can tag along. Will you need any gear? We’ll be away for a couple of days at least.’
Winstone swung round quickly. His teeth gleamed whitely in a mirthless smile.
‘Man, that’s fine. That just fine.’ He patted the pockets of his raincoat. ‘I got all I want. Where we going?’
‘Cornwall.’ David wondered if he knew where Cornwall was. ‘Come on, let’s get cracking.’
They took the A30 out of London. The rain cut down their speed. The single wiper operated from the top of the wind-screen, and David’s immediate vision was poor. There were no side screens; the rain beat in at them, and the hood was sufficiently elderly to have lost much of its tautness, flapping noisily above their heads. But the weather was not David’s most urgent problem, although it conspired to confuse it. Even though Bandy might have guessed their destination, he could not be certain of their route; if he wanted to stay with them he would have to follow. The rain and the heavy London traffic called for all David’s concentration; he had none to spare for keeping a close watch on the cars behind him. Every now and again a glance into the driving mirror would reveal a car which he thought to have seen there before, and anxiety and doubt would start to crowd him. Then the car would turn off or sweep past or be left behind, and he would breathe freely again. Winstone was little use as a watch-dog. David had told him to keep his eyes peeled for a possible pursuer; but there was no mirror on the near-side wing, and the celluloid rear window in the hood was yellowed and cracked and dangerously opaque. Through it one could see only the blurred outlines of the following cars; to distinguish make or type was impossible. Once or twice Winstone leaned out over the side of the Alvis to glance back, holding tightly on to his cap and gripping his raincoat at the neck. David suspected that this was more in the nature of a formality, a polite concession rather than a serious attempt to identify a possible pursuer.
Despite the rain and the poor visibility they made reasonable time at first. Obsessed by urgency, David drove faster than the conditions warranted, cutting his corners and braking late, with the Alvis responding nobly. Then, approaching Virginia Water, the car ahead of them braked suddenly, and David had to do the same. With a sinking stomach he felt the rear of the Alvis slide away from him into the kerb. While Winstone gripped the side and slid lower in an instinctive act of self-preservation, David took his feet off the controls and steered into the skid, his eyes on the gap ahead. He felt the rear wheels hit the granite sets, saw the gap narrow alarmingly. Then the Alvis straightened out and came under control, the car in front accelerated away, and David knew that the danger was past.
After that their speed dropped.
Before leaving London David had reckoned that by keeping to the A30 he would be in the Exeter area early in the afternoon; even with their reduced speed they should be there between three and four o’clock. Although May was not a peak holiday month, he had heard and read so much about the crowded Exeter bypass that he had decided to avoid it by heading farther north. The Alvis had been designed for an age when traffic flowed more freely; the gear change was stiff, the power unit willing but rough. To keep out of trouble he had intended to fork right after Basingstoke and make for Andover and Wincanton. But somehow he missed the turning. A few miles farther on they drove through Sutton Scotney, and he realized he was still on the A30 and heading for Salisbury.
Annoyed at his mistake, he braked abruptly and pulled in to the side of the road. But he had failed to appreciate how fast the car behind was coming up to him. A green Austin Princess, it swung out with squealing tyres, narrowly missing an oncoming lorry and showering the Alvis and its occupants with spray.
It disappeared round a bend without slackening speed. David said, ‘Sorry about that. I should have signalled sooner. But that chap is certainly in a hurry. Now, let’s take a look at the map.’
He had hoped earlier that route-finding might be left to his companion. But he had soon found that Winstone was no map-reader; nor, when David tried to explain its complexities to him, had he shown any sign of interest or recognition. Once they were out of London he had slid down in his seat as far as he could, collar up and cap well forward, leaning inward to escape the penetrating rain. It seemed that the English countryside in wet weather was not for him. Had it not been for his occasional comment David would have thought he was asleep.
As David opened the map Winstone slowly pushed himself into a more upright position. Fumbling in a pocket for cigarettes and matches, he said, in his high-pitched voice, ‘Man, don’t you take no more chances. They say bad luck coming in threes. Maybe we not going to escape so easy from the next one, huh?’
David acknowledged the reproof with a grunt of disdain. He resented the implied criticism of his driving (although recognizing that to some extent it was justified), and he objected to the West Indian’s new-found familiarity. If he’s going to come the acid with me, he thought angrily, out he goes. I don’t have to keep him. He’s no help as a navigator, and a dead loss as a companion.
Studying the map, he saw that he had no alternative but to make for Salisbury. A few miles past Wilton a minor road linked the A30 with the Wincanton road. He would branch off there. Traffic was lighter than he had expected, but he was taking no chances with that bypass.
They were in Salisbury by half-past eleven. The Alvis was running well, its exhaust crackling merrily, and David felt more relaxed. There was no sign of pursuit, and he had already forgotten his resentment against his companion. As they pulled up in a stream of traffic at a crossing and waited for the lights to turn to green he said cheerfully, ‘We haven’t done so badly. Feeling peckish?’
‘Man, I’m always that,’ Winstone told him, grinning. The rain had eased a little, and he sat more upright now. Although the countryside apparently held no appeal for him, it was otherwise with the towns. David wondered how much he knew of England. Probably he had never been farther from London than Brighton or Southend.
‘We’ll give it another hour, and then stop for lunch,’ David said.
As he spoke he felt the Alvis roll slowly backward. They were on a steep hill, and he tugged at the hand brake, looking anxiously into the driving mirror to see what was behind him. The Alvis stopped rolling, but David’s frown did not relax. He said, ‘That’s funny. That big Austin the one that nearly cannoned into us outside Sutton Scotney — it’s just behind us. The rate he was going, he should be miles ahead by now.’
Winstone did not look round. He said, ‘Maybe he stopped for a drink.’
‘Maybe,’ David agreed. He peered into the mirror again in an attempt to see the Austin’s occupants more clearly, but rain blurred his vision. He thought there were two men in front, but he could not be sure. ‘We’ll give them a clear field if they’re going our w
ay. That car can move.’
The Austin was going their way. But the driver made no attempt to overtake.
Outside the town David slowed to a crawl; the Austin kept close behind him, while slower cars swept past. When they were through Wilton and the Austin was still there David started to worry. Was this it? Was this the pursuit he had feared? Well, there was one way to make sure. Little more than a mile ahead, at Barford St Martin, was the minor road that led through Chilmark and Hindon to the A303 and Wincanton. That was where he had planned to turn off. If the Austin followed him his fears would be confirmed.
He nearly missed the turning. It came at a left-hand bend, and he swung the Alois into it sharply across a stream of traffic coming from the west, leaving behind him a squeal of brakes. Winstone glanced at him quickly and then away, but he said nothing. David knew what he was thinking. He was grateful for the other’s restraint, but he too was silent. He was trying to watch both the road ahead and the road astern.
The improvement in the weather had been only temporary. Now the rain was almost torrential, smacking against the wind-screen so fiercely that the wiper was unable to cope. David sat leaning forward, gripping the steering-wheel hard with both hands, his foot heavy on the throttle; he knew that he was driving the car too hard, but his fear of pursuit forced him to accept the implied risk. In her day the old twelve-fifty had been renowned for lightness of handling; now the king-pins and the steering were worn, and with every bump or rut in the road’s surface David felt the wheel jerk in his hands. Pottering around London and the home counties, suiting his speed to the conditions, the wear had not been so apparent. It had not bothered him on the A30. But on this twisting road with its uneven surface he began to regret his peremptory rejection of Paul’s Jaguar, and the M.O.T. certificate granted by some misguided if well-meaning mechanic to the Alvis’s former owner.
