The Thousand Faces of Night (1961)

by Jack Higgins

  Their eyes met. A look of rage mingled with fear passed over the Irishman's face. He got up quickly and disappeared into the corridor. Marlowe moved to the nearest door, pushed an indignant passenger out of the way and entered the carriage.

  As he turned into the corridor, he saw Monaghan disappear round the corner at the far end. Marlowe went after him, pushing his way along the crowded corridor, using his great size ruthlessly to force a passage. People were calling out angrily, somewhere behind him a woman screamed and then he pushed through the last door in the passenger section of the train and found himself in the guard's van.

  As he entered, Monaghan was going out of the loading door on to the platform, pushing his way through the porters who were loading the van. Marlowe tripped over a suitcase as he followed and went sprawling on his face, hands outstretched to break his fall. He half-screamed in agony as pain coursed through his tortured hands and then he was on his feet and following Monaghan, who was running like a hare for the far end of the platform.

  Slowly Marlowe overhauled him. The Irishman paused at the end of the platform and glanced back and then he turned and jumped down on to the track. There were several goods trains parked a few hundred yards away across a welter of tracks and he made towards them.

  As Marlowe followed he heard the sound of an approaching train. He turned his head and saw a fast passenger train entering the station at the other end. Monaghan saw it also and redoubled his efforts to pass across the track, obviously hoping that the train would cut him off from his pursuer. Marlowe gritted his teeth and increased his speed.

  There was a dreadful pain in his side and a red mist before his eyes. Somewhere near at hand he could hear the sound of the train. His stride increased and he flung himself forward and fell head first across the rails. The noise of the train was deafening and then, as he scrambled to his feet, he discovered that it was behind him.

  Monaghan had disappeared behind the trucks of a near-by goods train. When Marlowe approached, he saw a steep bank on the far side of the train that lifted to a five-foot wire fence and the road beyond. Monaghan was half-way up the bank.

  As Marlowe staggered forward the Irishman gave a despairing cry, his foot slipped and he fell backwards, sliding and slipping until he landed in a heap on the track.

  Marlowe lifted him up in his great, glove-covered hands and Monaghan babbled in fear, 'For God's sake, Marlowe. Leave me alone. I'll tell you anything you want, only leave me alone.'

  Marlowe slapped him back-handed, rocking his head to one side. 'Tell me about Jenny O'Connor and tell me fast. Did she know you were going to tamper with the brakes on my truck?' He shook the Irishman like a rat. 'Tell me!' he said savagely. 'I've got to know.'

  Monaghan coughed and tried to pull the hands away from his throat. 'Of course she knew, you fool,' he gasped. 'She was the boss. She arranged everything.'

  For a moment Marlowe's hands relaxed as his mind tried to grasp the full meaning of what the Irishman had said and Monaghan fell back against the bank. 'She was pumping you for information all the time,' he went on. 'It was because of what you told her that we knew you were going to truck stuff down to London.'

  Marlowe still couldn't believe it. 'But why?' he demanded. 'What about O'Connor?'

  Monaghan shrugged and felt his throat tenderly. 'They were married,' he said. 'She was a chorus girl in a cheap strip show. She was appearing in Birmingham when O'Connor saw her. They were married within a week. She made him promise to keep it a secret. He was crazy about her. He would have crawled on his belly from here to London if she'd told him to. He was always small time before. She was the one with all the ideas. She made him start the wholesaling racket and a few other things as well.'

  Marlowe's mind was numb, but in some curious fashion his brain was as cold as ice. 'What happened the night you fixed the brakes on my truck?'

  Monaghan shrugged. 'She thought you'd be going to London that night. She wanted to get you out of the way so that I could have a chance to work on the truck.'

  Marlowe reached forward and grabbed the Irishman with his left hand. 'That's all I wanted to know, you dirty swine.' His right fist thudded again and again into Monaghan's face.

  Somewhere a police whistle sounded, high and shrill through the rain. Marlowe released his grip on the unconscious body of the Irishman and scrambled hastily up the bank to the fence at the top. As he clambered over it he looked back and saw three policemen running across the tracks towards the goods train.

  It was almost completely dark now. He ran along the pavement and turned into the first side street and kept on running. The police could have him afterwards if they wanted, but not now. He had work to do. He had to settle with Jenny O'Connor.

  He ran on past the yellow street lamps, through the streets deserted in the heavy rain and after several minutes, came out into the main square. For a moment he hesitated and then he made his decision and turned into the side street that led to her flat.

  The little courtyard was quiet and deserted and no light shone from the windows. He leaned against the door and pressed the bell push, but no one answered to its insistent demand.

  He turned with a curse and went back the way he had come, back into the rainswept square and started to run towards the warehouse. A great fear had taken possession of him, a fear that she might have left. That he was perhaps too late.

  The front of the warehouse was in darkness and when he climbed up on to the loading bay he found the small postern still smashed and hanging crazily on its hinges, as he had left it earlier that afternoon.

  He moved through it and stood in the soundless dark. A line of light showed beneath a door in the far corner and he moved quietly towards it and stood for a moment listening. There was no sound. He opened the door and stepped through.

  He was in the garage at the rear of the building. Before him, great double doors stood open to the night and a concrete ramp sloped steeply to a loading platform in the basement. As he stood there looking about him, there was the sudden roar of an engine and a truck turned in through the doors and rolled to a halt beside him. Jenny O'Connor looked at him in surprise for a moment or two and then she switched off the engine, applied the handbrake and jumped down from the cab.

  She was wearing the black leather driving jacket and tight jeans. Her hair gleamed in the harsh white light of the lamp. She looked altogether lovely and desirable. A peculiar smile appeared on her face. 'Well, Hugh, what is it this time?'

  'You lousy rotten bitch,' Marlowe said, in a dead voice.

  Something flickered in her eyes. 'So you know?' She laughed harshly. 'Poor Hugh, you were so sure of yourself. So sure of your strength in every way. But I made a fool of you, didn't I?'

  He shook his head slowly from side to side. 'All that stuff about your father,' he said. 'All lies. And the tales you told me about O'Connor.' He made an exclamation of disgust. 'And to think you were sleeping with that fat slug.' He shook his head again. 'What kind of a woman are you?'

  Anger flared in her eyes. 'I was born in a tenement in Poplar,' she said. 'Maybe that doesn't mean anything to you, but it did to me. Five in a bed, filth and squalor and poverty.' She shook her head. 'That wasn't for me. All my life I've struggled to get on and when I met O'Connor, I seized my chance with both hands. Marrying him meant everything. Comfort, luxury and security.'

  'And no price was too high to pay,' Marlowe said. 'Even to killing a poor old man who never harmed you.'

  She shrugged. 'The old fool got in the way and, anyway, you were supposed to be in that truck.' She laughed in a curious brittle fashion. 'You know I liked you, Hugh Marlowe. I really liked you more than any man I've ever known. I gave you your chance and you wouldn't take it.' Her voice hardened and she said contemptuously: 'The trouble with you is that you're soft underneath. Really soft.' She shook her head. 'You'll never amount to anything.'

  Marlowe was having difficulty in contracting his burnt fingers. He wondered in a detached way how he was going to kill her.
'Your little scheme to sick my old pals from London on to me came unstuck,' he said. 'Faulkner's dead and the other two are in the hands of the police.'

  A frown appeared on her brow that was quickly erased. 'That's their hard luck,' she said.

  Marlowe was beginning to feel a little faint. He passed a hand over his brow. 'Papa Magellan's death was murder. Doesn't that worry you?'

  For a moment she was surprised and then an expression of amusement appeared on her face. 'Don't make me laugh,' she said. 'Even if they can prove anything, they can't put a finger on me. My late lamented husband was the boss here as far as anyone knew. He'll take any blame that's going and he's dead.'

  She gazed around her at the building and the trucks parked on either side and said with satisfaction, 'Yes, he's dead and all this is mine now.' She smiled at Marlowe pityingly. 'And you could have shared it.' She took a deep breath and said harshly, 'Go on, get out of here, you stupid fool. You're on my property.'

  She turned and walked away down the ramp towards the loading bay at the bottom. When she reached it, she took down a vehicle schedule and stood against the loading platform with her back to Marlowe and examined it.

  Marlowe looked through the open door into the cab of the truck. In her hurry she had omitted to put the truck into reverse gear and it was held on the steep slope only by the handbrake.

  Marlowe looked at the heavy truck, at the steep slope and Jenny O'Connor standing against the platform at the bottom and knew what he must do.

  He moved forward and stretched out his hand to the handbrake. There was a gentle cough from behind and a voice said, 'Now that would be a very silly thing to do, son.'

  Alpin moved out of the darkness and came forward, shaking rain from his hat, a uniformed sergeant and constable at his shoulder. 'It's you,' Marlowe said stupidly.

  Alpin put a hand on his arm and said gently: 'The police handle this sort of thing much better, you know. It's about time you found that out, isn't it?'

  Marlowe shook his head. 'But you haven't any proof?'

  Alpin smiled and replaced his hat on his head. 'Monaghan's at the station now,' he said. 'He was unconscious when they brought him in, but he recovered enough to give me a few very interesting facts.' He gave Marlowe a gentle shove. 'Go on, get out of here. Your pal's waiting for you outside.'

  He turned and went down the ramp towards Jenny O'Connor, the men in uniform walking with him. She turned to face them and as Marlowe watched, Alpin began to speak to her. For a moment she faced him boldly and then her shoulders dropped and she became an old woman.

  As Marlowe turned and walked away he remembered the long years, the grey years in the tiny cells, with a little sunlight filtering in through small windows and he wondered how she would look after ten years of that. Would her loveliness last or would it wither away and wrinkle like an apple stored in a dark cupboard for too long?

  A truck was standing at the kerbside, its engine gently ticking over and Mac called quietly, 'Over here, Hugh.'

  Marlowe climbed up into the passenger seat and the Jamaican drove away. After a while he said, 'I had to tell the police, Hugh. I couldn't stand by and see you ruin yourself. She just isn't worth it.'

  Marlowe nodded. 'That's all right, Mac,' he said and then, as an afterthought: 'The other truck's still parked outside the station.'

  Mac shrugged. 'We'll pick it up tomorrow.'

  Tomorrow, Marlowe thought. So there's going to be a tomorrow, is there? He suddenly realized that he was soaked to the skin and a tremendous wave of tiredness ran through him. 'How's Maria?'

  Mac grinned. 'Plenty worried about you, man, but that's all.'

  The rain had stopped and Marlowe let down the side window and breathed the cold night air deeply into his lungs. In some inexplicable way he was beginning to feel good about things. He turned to the Jamaican and said, 'What are you going to do now, Mac?'

  Mac shrugged. 'That depends.'

  'Depends on what?' Marlowe demanded.

  'On how good an offer I get,' Mac retorted.

  Marlowe smiled and shook his head. 'Don't run away with ideas like that,' he said. 'It's Maria's business now. She may have other notions.'

  Mac shook his head and said definitely, 'That girl's got only one idea where you're concerned.'

  Marlowe put a hand into his inside pocket and took out a sodden envelope that dripped water. He looked at it seriously and said, 'There's nearly two thousand quid in there, Mac. The way I look at it, Maria's entitled to a little compensation. A clever man could develop the business over the years and use this money without her ever realizing it.'

  Mac grinned. 'Especially if he had the right kind of assistance.'

  Marlowe clapped him on the shoulder. The truck swung into the farmyard, and as it moved forward the front door opened, flooding the porch with light.

  She stood looking out from the step, her face in darkness. Marlowe wearily clambered down from the cab and turned towards her. He still couldn't see her face and as he took a hesitant step forward, she cried his name brokenly and ran towards him.

  As he pulled her close in the prison of his arms, Marlowe was finally at peace. For the first time in his life he felt completely sure of himself and knew where he was going.

  She turned and pulled him gently out of the darkness into the warm light of the house.

  A Biography of Jack Higgins

  Jack Higgins is the pseudonym of Harry Patterson (b. 1929), the New York Times bestselling author of more than seventy thrillers, including The Eagle Has Landed and The Wolf at the Door. His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.

  Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, Patterson grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As a child, Patterson was a voracious reader and later credited his passion for reading with fueling his creative drive to be an author. His upbringing in Belfast also exposed him to the political and religious violence that characterized the city at the time. At seven years old, Patterson was caught in gunfire while riding a tram, and later was in a Belfast movie theater when it was bombed. Though he escaped from both attacks unharmed, the turmoil in Northern Ireland would later become a significant influence in his books, many of which prominently feature the Irish Republican Army. After attending grammar school and college in Leeds, England, Patterson joined the British Army and served two years in the Household Cavalry, from 1947 to 1949, stationed along the East German border. He was considered an expert sharpshooter.

  Following his military service, Patterson earned a degree in sociology from the London School of Economics, which led to teaching jobs at two English colleges. In 1959, while teaching at James Graham College, Patterson began writing novels, including some under the alias James Graham. As his popularity grew, Patterson left teaching to write full time. With the 1975 publication of the international blockbuster The Eagle Has Landed, which was later made into a movie of the same name starring Michael Caine, Patterson became a regular fixture on bestseller lists. His books draw heavily from history and include prominent figures--such as John Dillinger--and often center around significant events from such conflicts as World War II, the Korean War, and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

  Patterson lives in Jersey, in the Channel Islands.

  Patterson as an infant with his mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. He moved to Northern Ireland with his family as a child, staying there until he was twelve years old.

  Patterson with his parents. He left school at age fifteen, finding his place instead in the British military.

  A candid photo of Patterson during his military years. While enlisted in the army, he was known for his higher-than-average military IQ. Many of Patterson's books would later incorporate elements of the military experience.

  Patterson's first payment as an author, a check for PS67. Though he wanted to frame the check rather than cash it, he was persuaded otherwise by his wife. The bank returned the check after payment, writing that, "It will make a prettier picture, bearing the rubber stampings."
/>   Patterson in La Capannina, his favorite restaurant in Jersey, where he often went to write. His passion for writing started at a young age, and he spent much time in libraries as a child.

  Patterson visiting a rehearsal for Walking Wounded, a play he wrote that was performed by local actors in Jersey.

  Patterson with his children.

  Patterson in a graveyard in Jersey. Patterson has often looked to graveyards for inspiration and ideas for his books.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright (c) 1961 by Jack Higgins

  ISBN: 978-1-936317-58-5

  This edition published in 2010 by Open Road Integrated Media

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