by John Creasey
She broke off again: and her eyes were narrowed and her voice was taut; something of the fear was back.
‘Had you ever seen these men before?’ Murray asked.
‘No, not at any time.’
‘Where were you living with your uncle?’
‘On the Island of Canna,’ the girl declared, and now something other than the drama of her story affected Murray, for Canna was an island very much in the news; one didn’t have to be a ‘resting’ foreign correspondent to know that. He could believe that the aquiline face of the man who had tried to kill him was that of a native of that island too; he had been there, knew how distinctive they were, in spite of the strain of Arab blood. ‘Do you know Canna?’ the girl asked.
‘I know it very well.’ Murray heard a car engine in the distance and felt sure that it was the police—or a policeman back with the postman, who deserved a gold medal and a handsome bonus for his morning’s work; not many people would behave so coolly when under fire.
‘What is your uncle’s name?’ Murray asked, almost idly.
Her eyes were rounded, and he had the impression that she was watching him more closely than before, almost as if she was appraising him. Then she spoke very quietly and yet firmly.
‘I would prefer not to tell you, yet.’
The car engine was nearer; it sounded very like the post- office van. Murray, startled by her answer, puzzled and even mildly amused, smiled at the girl as he stood up.
‘That’s up to you,’ he said, ‘but at least you can tell me who you are.’
‘Of course,’ the girl said. ‘I am Juanita Lang.’
‘Juanita Lang,’ Murray echoed. The name Lang seemed to strike some chord in his memory, too, but he couldn’t call it to mind. There had been a lot of Spanish influence in Canna, centuries ago, and the name Juanita did not occur to him as strange. ‘All right, Juanita Lang,’ he said. ‘I’d better go and let the police in, But before I do, I’ll make you more comfortable.’
‘You go and speak to them,’ said Juanita. ‘I am well enough to straighten this bed and to make myself tidy, now.’
She gave that almost prim little smile, and Murray smothered a grin as he turned from the room. There was a honky-honk-honk on the van horn, obviously meant to be reassuring, and he opened the front door. At first he opened it only an inch or two, but he saw the van and then pulled it wide.
The postman was jumping out.
The door on this side of the van opened, and a constable climbed down, ponderously, wearing his thick blue serge and his tall helmet and, when he turned to face the cottage, showing that he was carrying a truncheon. Faced with half- a-dozen desperadoes, all armed with guns, he would probably have made exactly the same approach.
The postman came hurrying, to join him, and the two men approached the cottage.
5. Request
At first Murray did not see what the postman was carrying, but suddenly he recognised a shotgun. The postman held the barrel down by his legs, obviously to make sure that it wouldn’t be noticed, and looked right and left, as if half prepared for more trouble. Murray waved. The postman broke into a run, but the policeman came on at a steady pace, swinging his truncheon at first, but soon, apparently satisfied that it would not be needed, tucking it away into some secret place inside his clothes.
The sun glinted on the postman’s reddish hair, and his freckles were like tiny spots of pale brown paint.
‘Everything okay now, sir?’ He wasn’t even slightly breathless as he drew up. ‘Drove the so-and-so’s off, did you?’ There was no stint of admiration in his eyes and in his voice. ‘Nice work.’
‘When they knew you’d gone for help they soon threw their hands in,’ Murray said, and went on quickly: ‘And one of these days I hope to find a way of thanking you.’
‘Oh, forget it,’ the postman said, and turned round towards the policeman and called: ‘They’ve all gone, Bob; nothing to worry about. But put a move on, can’t you? I’ve got me letters to deliver.’
Murray was offering cigarettes.
‘Thank you, sir. Ta. While I think of it,’ went on the postman briskly, ‘I didn’t know how many of the swine there was, so I got the cop—the constable,’ he amended hastily, for the policeman was only a few paces away, ‘to telephone Hilberry Camp. Very nice chap, the C.O. up there. Be a detachment of the military here before we know what’s what—just on a patrol of course. I thought it better to be on the safe side.’
‘You couldn’t have been more right,’ said Murray, and turned to the policeman. ‘Morning, constable. You didn’t lose much time.’
‘Understood it was an emergency, sir,’ the constable said in a rich, slow voice. ‘No, thank you, I won’t smoke now.’ He looked about the garden as if he found it hard to believe the story the postman had told him. ‘These persons used firearms, I understand.’
‘Proper ruddy ambush,’ the postman interpolated.
‘Have you any idea which way they have gone?’ asked the policeman, ponderous but certainly dogged. ‘When the military happen to arrive on the scene, it might be possible for them to. . .’
‘That way,’ Murray said, and pointed. ‘But that’s only part of the story, constable.’
‘That so, sir?’ Rather small, cloudy blue eyes took on a look of cautious interest. ‘May I ask if you were injured in any way?’
‘Not seriously,’ Murray said. In fact there was a graze on his shoulder, which he’d almost forgotten, and his ankle.
He stopped speaking, and tried to get the story into shape for telling in such a way that it wouldn’t sound incredulous. Told badly, it would seem even worse: incredible. There was the postman’s evidence that he had been fired at, but the bodies had gone from the well at the corner, and when he himself tried to carry his thoughts back to what had happened, he found it difficult. The policeman was probably excellent at his job, but asking him to grasp this story was like asking a master of simple mathematics to cope with the theory and practice of nuclear research. Yet as he hesitated, Murray was keenly conscious of the policeman’s gaze, and his hesitation even seemed to puzzle the postman.
He had to tell it simply; and he couldn’t tell it all—not yet at all events.
‘Were you about to make a statement, sir?’ the constable remarked politely. He hadn’t yet taken out his notebook, but his hand was fidgeting.
‘Yes, I’ll make a statement,’ Murray said, ‘and I know you’d like it to be as brief as possible. A girl came here during the night, after escaping from some people who’— he boggled at the word ‘kidnapped’, but it had to come out, and he watched for the effect—’who had kidnapped her. Apparently they spent some time looking for her, and discovered that she was here. They wanted her back.’
Polite incredulity.
’Kidnapped,’ the postman echoed hoarsely.
‘Is the young lady here now, sir?’ the policeman asked.
‘Yes. But asleep, or next door to it. She’s had a very rough time, and I’m wondering whether we could have a doctor or a nurse to have a look at her, before she’s disturbed.’ -
The policeman began to play with a bright pocket button. A new expression crept into his eyes, and something in his manner made him seem to grow in stature; nature hadn’t made him a fool, just a cautious man.
‘Kidnapped,’ the postman repeated helplessly, and looked about as if he expected to see some evidence of it; Long John Silver, for instance, lurking at the corner. But there was only the garden, the few late roses, the apple-trees and, in sight, two of three cows grazing.
‘You wouldn’t know the young lady’s name, sir, would you?’ asked the policeman.
‘Yes. At least, I can give you the name she gave me. Lang—Juanita Lang.’
As he heard that, the policeman’s expression changed again, puzzling Murray, and there was a look akin to cunning in his eyes. He turned away for the first time, to look towards the road and the direction of Hilberry Camp, and it was almost possible to hear him thinking
that he hoped the ‘military’ wouldn’t be long ‘happening by’. He moistened his lips, then squared his heavy shoulders and echoed:
‘Miss Juanita Lang, sir? And she—she just arrived here during the night.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I see,’ said the constable and looked towards the brow of the hill again. He wasn’t rewarded with the sight of an army vehicle, but there was a sound of a heavy engine, some distance off; the noisy kind of engine that was likely to be in an army truck. ‘And she’s upstairs now, sir?’
‘Yes. In my bedroom.’
‘Hmm,’ repeated the constable. ‘Upstairs?’
‘Yes.’ Murray felt a moment of extreme irritation, yet realised that the policeman had something heavy on his mind—and he was much more anxious than he had been to see the troops who were on their way. ‘Yes, upstairs,’ repeated Murray, ‘and don’t go into the downstairs room on the right.’
That made the policeman look away from the distant hill.
‘Why not, sir?’
‘These chaps tossed a phial of gas in, and I didn’t like the look of it.’
‘Poison gas?’
‘I wouldn’t like to take a deep breath in it,’ Murray said dryly. ‘As soon as the others come, we could use a gas squad.’
‘They’ll soon be able to look after that, sir,’ said the policeman, and now he became downright nervous. ‘Decontamination squad wanted, quick as possible, eh? The young lady isn’t in any danger, is she?’
‘She was all right when I left her. But. . .’
Murray stopped, abruptly; for the first time he realised that some of the men might have been hiding at the back, and might have crept up to the cottage to finish their job. He moved swiftly, in sharp alarm, and before either of the others could stop him; but the garden at the rear of the cottage was empty too.
He came back, and tried to make out what worried the village policeman so much. Obviously, the man was on edge, but he hadn’t been until the girl’s name had been mentioned: why should ‘Juanita Lang’ affect him so? Murray kept silent for what seemed a long time, and the postman broke his uneasy quiet.
‘Here’s a lark to tell the missus,’ he said half jocularly. ‘Not that she’ll ever believe me, though. But I’ve still got the post to deliver, Bob; is it okay for me to get cracking?’
‘No!’ The constable almost shouted the word, as if he was nervous at the possibility of being left here alone with Murray. ‘No,’ he repeated more quietly; ‘better wait until someone else comes along, Syd. Shouldn’t be long, if that’s the army patrol.’
He stared at the brow of the hill again, and this time a large army truck swung into sight, moving at a good pace. It gathered speed and momentum as it came down the hill, too fast for Murray’s peace of mind.
‘This young lady, sir, do you know where she escaped from?’
‘The only place I can think of is Cliff House. That’s . . .’
‘I know it,’ said the constable. ‘Did you see the car these men escaped in?’
‘A biggish black Austin, but I couldn’t distinguish the number.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The constable turned to look towards the approaching soldiers, and went on quietly:
‘Looks as if there’s an officer with them. You two stay here, will you? while I have a word with them.’ He promptly stalked off, but hadn’t gone five yards before he beckoned the postman. ‘Hey, Syd,’ he called; ‘come here a minute, will you?’
The postman walked towards him. Murray watched and strained his ears to catch what was said, but failed; yet he could guess what it was, for the postman nodded, his coppery hair looking redder than it had earlier, and he shifted his hold on the shotgun and gave Murray a look that was almost suspicious.
‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ Murray said mildly, ‘but you needn’t worry, Syd; I shan’t run away.’
The postman turned scarlet. Murray grinned. Then they both laughed.
‘That’s a funny thing,’ the postman said.
‘What is?’
‘You mentioning Cliff House,’ the postman explained. ‘First time for over two weeks I haven’t had anything for the house. Let to a Mr. Mikolas, since Mr. Abbott went up to London. What about thatl The servants are all little dark chaps.’
‘You’d better not lose any time telling the law about that,’ Murray said dryly.
He backed a little and listened, but he heard nothing. He saw the men jumping down from the truck—six of them in all, young, spruce-looking youngsters in khaki, each carrying a rifle, except the one who looked youngest, and was obviously a very junior lieutenant. He came striding towards the policeman. They stopped together in the gateway, the policeman’s head bent, as if he wanted to make sure that only the officer heard about this.
What was electric about the name Juanita Lang?
Why was Lang. . .
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Murray, with satisfaction. ‘Judge Lang of Canna. Of course.’
He knew now why the name was familiar, but it wasn’t really surprising that it had taken so long. The days of Judge Lang and the Isle of Canna were deep in the past.
Ten years? Fifteen? He didn’t know; and he knew little of the details, but he did know that Judge Lang had been virtually a Solomon to the island, and that there had been great public mourning when he had left. Hadn’t he married one of the Canna women? Murray wasn’t quite sure, just had a recollection that there had been some kind of romance. Scandal? He didn’t know.
The young officer was now talking to one of the men who carried a walkie-talkie outfit. He saluted, and then began to transmit a message, presumably back to camp. So this was all being taken very seriously. Then the remaining soldiers and the subaltern came up, briskly. Two of the soldiers split from the main party, obviously under instructions, and doubled towards the back of the house; that was sensible enough. The constable was hard put to it to keep up with the officer, but when the man drew up to the front door, he was only a yard or two behind.
The subaltern was no more than twenty-one. He was fair- haired—rather like the girl—and looked as if he shaved once a fortnight, and that only as a matter of pride. His eyes were honey-brown and very clear, and in his clean-cut way he was a nice boy. Murray, at thirty-five, felt like his grandfather.
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Good morning, lieutenant.’
‘I understand that Miss Juanita Lang is upstairs.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Do you mind if the constable and I go and speak to her?’ He took Murray by surprise, and slipped between him and the front door, and he behaved as if he half-expected Murray to want to stop him. That was even more puzzling. Up till now it had been almost amusing, too, but Murray began to find it irritating.
He hid his feelings.
‘No objection at all, but I’m coming up with you. There’s another matter, though—about the house along the road. It...’
‘That’s being taken care of,’ the subaltern said. ‘I had a message radioed. What makes you insist on coming with us to see Miss Lang?’
‘She’s had a rough time, and I don’t want to spring new faces on her.’
‘What kind of rough time?’ the subaltern asked sharply.
Murray said: ‘It took me about an hour to bring her round; if you’ve ever applied artificial respiration for that length of time you’ll know it was a pretty worrying business; she might have died on me.’
‘Artificial...’ the subaltern began.
‘Do you mean you saved her life, sir?’ the policeman demanded.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Murray said. ‘If you must be mysterious, but don’t act as if I’m suspect.’
He pushed roughly past the young officer and went inside, leading the way upstairs. By the time he reached the bedroom door, he was able to laugh at himself and his anger, but he knew that it wouldn’t take much to annoy him again.
He tapped at the door.
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The officer was only just behind, almost touching his elbow and the policeman stood at the top of the stairs.
Both stared towards the door with such intensity that Murray was almost affected by their fears, and almost afraid of what he would see when he went inside.
There was no answer.
He tapped again. ‘Can I come in, Miss Lang?’
There was a pause, then: ‘Yes, please come in.’
‘You two wait until I call you in,’ Murray said, and opened the door.
The girl was sitting up in bed, and she had slipped her arms into a pyjama jacket which she must have found in the chest of drawers in a corner of the room. It was buttoned up to her chin. The colour was bright blue. Her cheeks were still rather flushed, and her eyes brighter than Murray had yet seen—probably brighter than any eyes he had seen. Her fresh beauty made him catch his breath. She was much calmer, and that was a tribute to the quality of her spirit, as well as to her steady nerve. She looked at him with an intensity which was almost embarrassing, but he took little notice of that. He had to warn her that the others were coming in, and that he probably hadn’t saved her from being questioned, after all.
He told her.
Her expression changed, and the bright eagerness faded from her eyes. But she raised no objection, and Murray called:
‘All right, come in.’
He continued to watch her as she looked at the two men, and he wondered what had affected them, what there was about this girl to cause such quickening tension.
