The Thousand Faces of Night (1961)

by Jack Higgins

  She stared at him, frozen-faced, and he turned and lurched through the door, leaving her there with her dead uncle in her lovely room, surrounded by beautiful things.

  It was an appalling drive back to Litton. The rain was falling so heavily that visibility was reduced to ten or fifteen yards and the windscreen-wipers were almost useless.

  The cobbles in the farmyard were flooded with rain, and when he jumped down from the truck the water mounted over his shoes, chilling him to the bone. He stood in the hall and peeled off his wet jacket, and then he was conscious of the utter quiet. He stood quite still, his face lifted a little, nostrils moving slightly like some animal that scents danger.

  'Mac!' he called. 'Where are you?' His voice echoed hollowly in the uncanny silence.

  He mounted the stairs, two at a time, and turned along the landing. 'Mac!' he shouted, and threw open the door of their bedroom. He paused in the doorway, his jacket slipping from his fingers and gazed around him in bewilderment.

  The room was a complete shambles. The bedding was scattered in every direction and the mattress had been slashed open exposing the horse-hair stuffing. Every drawer was pulled out and his personal belongings had been emptied on to the floor.

  He turned quickly and went downstairs. The kitchen looked as it usually did, except that the fire was out in the old-fashioned grate. He stood in the doorway and his eyes moved slowly over everything.

  A shudder ran through him and he moved forward and dropped on one knee beside the table. There was a pool of blood on the floor.

  At that moment the telephone rang sharply, its harsh clamour shattering the silence. He ran along the corridor, fear gripping him by the vitals, and lurched into the sittingroom. He snatched up the receiver. 'Hallo, Marlowe here. Who is that?'

  The line crackled a little and a voice that was vaguely familiar said, 'Hallo, Hugh, old man. So glad you've got back. This is the fifth time I've phoned during the past hour.'

  Marlowe swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice steady. 'Who is that?' he said.

  A gay laugh drifted along the line. 'Don't you recognize me, old man? Now really, I'm quite hurt. This is Faulkner speaking.'

  Marlowe closed his eyes for a moment and his hand tightened convulsively over the phone. 'How the hell did you find me?'

  'Never mind that, old man,' Faulkner told him. 'The point is, we've already visited your present residence and found you out. However, we did find a young lady and a coloured gentleman, and suggested they might like to keep us company for an hour or two.'

  Marlowe moistened his lips. 'Get to the point, Faulkner. What do you want?'

  'Oh, come now, old man. Don't let's be naive.'

  'I found some blood on the kitchen floor,' Marlowe said. 'Who got hurt. It wasn't the girl, was it?'

  Faulkner made an expression of distaste. 'No, it was your Jamaican pal. I'm afraid he didn't quite see eye to eye with us. Butcher had to persuade him a little. But don't worry. He's doing nicely.'

  'And the girl?' Marlowe said.

  'Oh, she's all right,' Faulkner assured him. 'At the moment, anyway. I'm given to understand you have quite an interest there, old man.'

  'Who told you that?' Marlowe croaked.

  'Never mind for the moment,' Faulkner said. 'For the young lady's sake I sincerely hope it's true. You'll find us at a place called Garvald Mill about four miles out of Litton. It's just off the Birmingham road. If you're not here within an hour with the twenty thousand, I'll turn the girl over to Harris. You know what he's like where young women are concerned.'

  'Faulkner, wait a minute. Listen to me,' Marlowe shouted.

  He was wasting his time. There was a slight click and the line went dead.

  11

  For several moments Marlowe stood holding the receiver to his ear and then he slowly replaced it in its cradle. He went out of the front door and ran across the farmyard, splashing through the heavy rain and not caring.

  The ladder was still in position against the loft. For a moment he looked up at it and then he started to climb. The Gladstone bag was exactly where he had left it, and he pulled it from under the old cricket net and climbed quickly down to the ground.

  He walked back to the house through the rain, the bag swinging in his right hand, and tried to work out his next move. When he went into the sitting-room he emptied the bag on the table and sat down in a chair and lit a cigarette.

  The bundles of notes almost covered the table-top, and one or two had fallen down on to the floor. He stared at them, his heart thudding, and after a while an ironic laugh escaped from his lips. It was really very funny when you considered it. All the years, the long, hard years in the place with the high walls. The grey morning filtering in through the tiny window on to his face, the hopeless queues of men slopping out, the bad food, the squalor, the vice, the rottenness. All these things he had endured and one thing had kept him going. The knowledge that some day he would be free and with enough money to keep him comfortably for the rest of his life.

  A man could live very well in a country like Ireland with twenty thousand pounds behind him. He sighed and laughed again. Yes, it was really rather ironic that in the end he should sacrifice all that for a young girl he'd known for a few days only.

  He stood up and began to put the money back into the bag. He had tried to pretend to himself for a while that he had a choice, but deep inside he had known that there was only one choice for him. The veneer of toughness, the brutality he had raised like a fence around him during the years against life, could not help him now. He was faced with a simple human problem. It could be solved in one way only. By a sacrifice on his part.

  He snapped the bag shut and pushed it on one side. He remembered having seen a map of the district in the sideboard, and he went and got it and spread it out on the table. As he pored over it he felt curiously light-hearted. It was a sensation he found impossible to analyse, even to himself.

  Garvald Mill was clearly marked on a side road about a quarter of a mile off the main Birmingham road just outside Litton. He found an old stub of blue pencil in the table drawer, and he drew a circle around the mill and considered the situation.

  It was situated on the bank of a stream and the area was heavily wooded. He frowned and went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. If it had been a simple matter of going and handing over the money it would have been all right, but Butcher and Harris were there as well. Faulkner was all right in his own twisted way. He did have some kind of code. Butcher and Harris were a different thing entirely. They were twisted in another way, and Marlowe had an uncomfortable feeling that this time they wouldn't be prepared to let him off so easily. Not Harris, certainly. The little man was a psychopath, and once he got started there was no knowing what he would do.

  Marlowe remembered Faulkner's threat to turn the girl over to Harris, and he shuddered and went back to the map. The mill was near the edge of a wood, and the approach road turned sharply so that it was possible to move quite close without being seen.

  He left the room and went into the kitchen. He opened the drawers until he found the one in which Maria kept her kitchen knives. She had a good selection. He finally chose a hollow-ground carver with a nine-inch blade. In another drawer he found a roll of insulating tape and he quickly cut several strips from it. He pulled up his left trouser-leg and carefully fixed the knife to the inside of his left shin with the strips of tape.

  As he turned to leave the kitchen he heard the low rumble of thunder in the distance and the rain started to drum against the windows with increasing force. At that moment the doorbell rang sharply.

  He stood still and listened. He could hear voices, and through the stained-glass panel at the side of the door a distorted image was visible. He moved forward slowly as the bell rang again, and opened the door. He looked straight into the kindly, spaniel-like face of Alpin, the Barford policeman. Alpin smiled and said, 'Now then, son, I've brought an old friend of yours along to see you. He's very anxious to h
ave a few words with you.'

  He stood slightly to one side and Superintendent Masters moved forward. 'Hallo, Marlowe,' he said. 'Fancy seeing you here.'

  Marlowe stared at him, completely off guard, and Alpin grinned. 'You don't mind if we come in, do you? It's rather wet out here.'

  They brushed past him and entered the hall. As he closed the door, Alpin continued, 'We'll go in here, if it's all right with you. I think we ought to have a few words.' He led the way into the sitting-room and Masters followed.

  Marlowe stood in the doorway and watched them carefully. Masters started to light his pipe and, as he did so, leaned over the table and examined the map. 'Hallo, what's all this? Planning to make a trip?' he said. 'Bag packed and everything.'

  He reached over and clicked the Gladstone bag open. There was a moment's silence as Alpin moved over and looked into the bag, and then Masters whistled. 'Funny looking stuff, isn't it?' He snapped the bag shut and shook his head. 'And to think what some men are prepared to do for it.'

  'Aye, there's no accounting for taste,' Alpin observed, taking out his inhaler and sniffing deeply.

  Marlowe made an exclamation of impatience. 'Let's cut out all the clever stuff and get down to essentials,' he said. 'How did you find me?'

  It was Alpin who gave him his answer. 'My God, what do you think we do in the police force? Sit around on our backsides all day? The afternoon of the morning you had your first run-in with Monaghan and his two pals behind O'Connor's place, there was a full description of you going out over the wire.'

  Masters smiled and puffed at his pipe. 'You see, Marlowe, even country policemen aren't quite as stupid as you tough boys seem to imagine. Do you really think a policeman doesn't give it any thought when a man like you arrives in a small country town and immediately takes on the three worst toughs in the place, single-handed?' He grinned. 'We've got files at Scotland Yard. There aren't many well-spoken young men of six feet four who favour the spade as a weapon. It took a day or two, but finally it reached me.'

  Suddenly, Marlowe was filled with rage. He saw everything now. 'You lousy swine,' he snarled. 'You found out where I was and then sicked Faulkner and his mob on to me.'

  Masters looked genuinely astonished. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said.

  Marlowe was almost insane with rage. He took a quick step forward and swung a tremendous punch at the policeman's jaw. In his anger he miscalculated badly and the blow missed Masters by several inches. He grabbed Marlowe by the arm and twisted him round and Alpin moved in quickly and grabbed his other wrist.

  'Now use your bloody head,' Masters said forcefully. 'You've known me a long time, Marlowe. When did I ever play a trick like that on anyone?'

  Marlowe relaxed completely. It was true. Masters was incapable of that sort of a trick. He had a reputation, even amongst the criminal fraternity, for being utterly fair and honest in his methods.

  As they released him Marlowe turned and said, 'I'm sorry. I got things a bit twisted.'

  'You've had things twisted for quite a while,' Masters told him. He patted the bag. 'It was all for nothing, Marlowe. If you'd had the sense to tell us where the money was at your trial you'd have got five years at the most. Instead, you were stubborn and the judge took that into account. You've served two extra years in prison and for nothing.'

  Marlowe made an impatient movement. 'All right, so I was a mug, but there's something more important to discuss at the moment. You can't take that money now. I need it.' They stared at him in complete surprise and he went on, 'Faulkner's been here. That's why I was so mad. I thought you'd told him where I was. He's taken Maria Magellan with him. I had a telephone message a little while ago. He's given me an hour in which to hand over the money or else.' He glanced at the clock. 'I've only got thirty minutes left.'

  Masters laughed coldly. 'Now really, Marlowe, you don't expect us to believe a story like that, do you? Let's face the facts. You were just getting ready to pull out of here.'

  A feeling like panic moved in Marlowe. 'You've got to believe me. You can search the house. You won't find the girl here.'

  Masters turned to Alpin and raised his eyebrows. 'What do you think?' he asked.

  Alpin frowned and then moved over to the window. 'I know Maria Magellan and in the ordinary way of things she would be here.' He sighed. 'Unfortunately her father's just been killed in a road accident. She couldn't very well stay here on her own with Marlowe and Mackenzie.'

  Masters nodded. 'That sounds reasonable.' He turned to Marlowe and shook his head. 'Sorry, chum, we aren't buying today.'

  Marlowe was calm and completely sure of himself now. He took one step forward and this time he made no mistake. His left fist sank into Masters's stomach and the big policeman doubled over, the breath hissing out of his body.

  Marlowe was out of the room and closing the door even as Alpin moved. He slammed the front door behind him and ran out into the rain. He scrambled up behind the wheel of the truck and switched on the engine. He was half-way across the yard and moving into second gear as the door opened and Alpin appeared in the porch.

  The rain was slanting into the earth in solid sheets like glass and thunder rolled ominously in the distance. He wiped rain away from his eyes and concentrated on the road ahead. It was almost impossible to see through the windscreen and he couldn't afford accidents at this stage.

  He glanced quickly at his watch. He still had twenty minutes in which to reach the mill, though what he was going to do when he got there was anybody's guess. The truck roared up the hill past the railway station, and a slight ironic smile twisted his lips as he passed the spot in the hedge through which he had squeezed on the fateful day he had arrived in Litton. He recalled everything that had happened. Perhaps he should never have got off the train? He shook his head. That was no answer. Life was a game and you never knew how the cards were going to fall from one minute to the next.

  He braked, his foot hard against the pedal, and swung the truck into the narrow lane that led to Garvald Mill. He frowned and tried to recall the map in detail. The mill, he had calculated, was a quarter of a mile from the road, and it came into view rather unexpectedly round a bend. He slowed down and pulled the truck into the side of the road and halted.

  He jumped down into the rain and went forward on foot. About fifty yards farther along the road was the bend, and when he reached it he cut into the woods and forced his way through a fir plantation towards the mill, dimly seen through the trees.

  He crouched down under a bush and examined the place carefully. The bulk of the building consisted of a large, three-storeyed tower, roof gaping to the sky. Built on to the building was an extension in wood which looked rather like stables or a storehouse. It seemed to be in a slightly better state of repair than the rest of the building. At the far side there was an immense water-wheel, and it was moving round now with an unearthly creaking and groaning, forced by the rushing waters of the flooded stream.

  Marlowe frowned for a moment as he considered his next move, and then he sighed and got to his feet. There was really nothing he could do except take a chance and hope that something would turn up. He stepped out into the open and walked towards the mill.

  When he was a few yards away, the door of the wooden part of the building opened and Faulkner appeared. He smiled cheerfully and called, 'Good show, Hugh. I knew I could depend on you. I always did say you had slightly nobler basic instincts than the rest of us.'

  He stood back slightly and Marlowe walked past him into the building. The place smelled of old hay and mice. There was a decrepit cart in one corner and a large loft ran round three sides of the building, with round, glassless windows letting in light.

  In the centre of the room there was an old five-gallon oil-can with a fire burning in it. As Marlowe moved forward his eyes quickly passed over everything. He could hear the water-wheel splashing violently outside, and against the stone wall of the mill itself there was a pool of water, covered with green scum and surrounde
d with stones smoothed by the years.

  Butcher and Harris were sitting by the fire on wooden boxes, and their eyes fastened on him malignantly, burning with hate. 'Hallo, Marlowe,' Butcher said. 'I didn't think you'd come. I was wrong.'

  'When were you ever right, you pig?' Marlowe said.

  He turned away as Butcher half rose, and Faulkner quickly said, 'Now then, don't let's have any fuss, boys.'

  Marlowe laughed harshly. 'They don't bother me,' he said. 'They don't even interest me. I want to see the girl and the Jamaican. Where are they?'

  Faulkner smiled and walked over to the corner which was nearest the pool of water. There was a pile of old hay that smelled as if it had been mouldering there for years. He pulled some of it aside and disclosed the forms of Maria and the Jamaican. They were both bound and gagged.

  'Take their gags out,' Marlowe ordered.

  For a moment Faulkner hesitated, and then he shrugged. As he pulled away the Jamaican's gag, Mac smiled. 'Hallo, boy. I knew you wouldn't let us down.'

  'Are you okay?' Marlowe asked.

  Mac grinned. 'That big dumb ox there cracked me on the head a little, but I'll survive.'

  Maria gave a broken sob as her mouth was freed. 'Oh, Hugh, thank God you've come. What's this all about? What do these men want?'

  Marlowe smiled reassuringly. 'Don't worry, angel. I'll have you out of here in a few minutes.'

  He turned and walked back to the fire and Faulkner followed him. 'Well, are you satisfied?' he asked Marlowe.

  Marlowe nodded. 'I'll get you the money now.'

  The two men by the fire stood up quickly, and Faulkner frowned. 'You mean you haven't got it on you?'

  Marlowe held up a hand. 'There's no need to panic,' he said. 'Did you think I was mug enough to walk in here without seeing what the situation was first?' He shrugged. 'I hid the bag containing the money under a bush a little way into the wood. I'll have to go and get it.'

  Faulkner smiled. 'I should have known,' he said. 'You always were a little brighter than anyone else.' He motioned to Butcher. 'You go with him and watch him closely.' He took his hand out of his pocket and held up a Luger automatic pistol. 'No funny business, Marlowe. Remember the girl and your pal will still be here with Harris and me.'