He gave his head a shake to clear away those inconvenient images. Then he lifted the scissors and calmly, deliberately, began to snip off her hair.
By the gray morning light, they followed the footprints in the mud—a pair of them, one large set, one smaller set, veering away from the road. The prints headed west across the field. It had rained heavily last night, and the tracks were easy to follow for about three hundred yards or so, until they connected up with another road. Then, after a few muddy imprints on the pavement, the footprints faded.
They could be anywhere by now.
Archie MacLeod gazed out over the field and cursed. “I should’ve known she’d do this. Probably got one inkling we were on her trail and off she goes. Like a bloody she-fox, that one.”
“You can hardly blame her,” said Richard. “Of course she’d expect the worst. How did your people fumble this one? They were supposed to bring her into custody. Instead they managed to chase her underground.”
“Their orders were to do it quietly. Somehow she got wind of them.”
“Or Jordan did,” said Richard. “I should have contacted him last night. Told him what was coming down. Now he’ll wonder.”
“You don’t think he doubts you?”
“No. But he’ll be cautious now. He’ll assume Van Weldon’s got me covered, that it won’t be safe to contact me. That’s what I’d assume in his place.”
“So how do we find them now?”
“We don’t.” Richard turned to his car and slid in behind the wheel. “And we hope Van Weldon doesn’t, either.”
“I’m not so confident of that.”
“Jordan’s clever. So is Clea Rice. Together they may do all right.”
MacLeod leaned in the car window. “Guy Delancey died this morning.”
“I know,” said Richard.
“And we’ve just heard rumors that Victor Van Weldon’s upped the price on Clea Rice to two million. Within twenty-four hours this area will be swarming with contract men. If they get anywhere near Clea Rice, she won’t stand a chance. Neither will Tavistock.”
Richard stared at him. “Why the hell did you wait so long to bring her into custody? You should have locked her under guard weeks ago.”
“We didn’t know whether to believe her.”
“So you waited for Van Weldon to make a move, was that the strategy? If he tried to kill her, she must be telling the truth?”
MacLeod slapped the car door in frustration. “I’m not defending what we’ve done. I’m just saying we’re now convinced she’s told the truth.” He leaned forward. “Jordan Tavistock is your friend. You must have an idea where he’d go.”
“I’m not even sure he’s the one calling the shots right now. It might be the woman.”
“You let me know if you come up with any ideas. Anything at all about where they might go next.”
Richard started the car. “I know where I’d go if I were them. I’d get away from here. I’d run as fast as I could. And I’d damn well get lost in a crowd.”
“London?”
Richard nodded. “Can you think of a better place to hide?”
“That woman must have nine lives. And she’s used up only three of them,” said Victor Van Weldon. He was wheezing again. His breathing, which was normally labored even on the best of days, had the moist rattle of hopelessly congested lungs.
Soon, thought Simon Trott. Victor was a dying man. What a relief it would be when it was over. No more of these distasteful audiences, these grotesque scenes of a virtual corpse fighting to hang on. If only the old man would just get it over with and die. Until then, he’d have to stay in the old man’s good graces. And for that, he’d have to take care of this Clea Rice problem.
“You should have seen to this yourself,” said Victor. “Now we’ve lost our chance.”
“We’ll find her again. We know she’s still with Tavistock.”
“Has he surfaced yet?”
“No. But eventually he’ll turn to his family. And we’ll be ready.”
Van Weldon exhaled a deep sigh. His breathing seemed clearer, as though the assurances had eased the congestion in his lungs. “I want you to see to it personally.”
Trott nodded. “I’ll leave for London this evening.”
Crouched behind the yew hedge of Guy Delancey’s yard, Jordan and Clea waited in the darkness for the house lights to go out. Whitmore’s nightly habit was as it had always been, the checking of the windows and doors at nine o’clock, the pause in the kitchen to brew a pot of tea, then the retreat upstairs to his room in the servants’ wing. How many years has the fellow clung to that petrified routine of his? Clea wondered. What a shock it must be to him, to know that all would soon change.
Clea and Jordan had heard it on the radio that morning: Guy Delancey was dead.
Soon others would come to claim this house. And old Whitmore, a relic from the dinosaur age, would be forced to evolve.
The lights in the servants’ wing went out.
“Give him half an hour,” whispered Jordan. “Just to make sure he’s asleep.”
Half an hour, thought Clea, shivering. She’d freeze by then. She was dressed in Monty’s black turtleneck and a baggy pair of jeans, which she’d shortened with a few snips of the scissors. It wasn’t enough protection against this chill autumn night.
“Which way do we enter?” asked Jordan.
Clea scanned the house. The French door leading from the terrace was how she’d broken in the last time. No doubt that particular lock had since been replaced. So, undoubtedly, had the locks on all the ground-floor doors and windows.
“The second floor,” she said. “Balcony off the master bedroom.”
“That’s how I got in the last time.”
“And if you managed to do it,” she said dryly, “it must have been a piece of cake.”
“Oh, right, insult your partner. See where it gets you.”
She glanced at him. His blond hair was concealed under a watch cap, and his face was blackened with grease. In the darkness only the white arc of his teeth showed in a Cheshire-cat grin.
“You’re sure you’re up to this?” she asked. “It could get sticky in there.”
“Clea, if things do go wrong, promise me.”
“Promise you what?”
“You’ll run. Don’t wait for me. And don’t look back.”
“Trying to be chivalrous again? Something silly like that?”
“I just want to get things straight now. Before things go awry.”
“Don’t say that. It’s bad luck.”
“Then this is for good luck.” He took her arm, pulled her against him and kissed her. She floundered in his embrace, torn between wanting desperately to get kissed again, and wanting to stay focused on the task that lay ahead. When he finally released her, they stared at each other for a moment. Only the gleam of his eyes and teeth were visible in the darkness.
That was a farewell kiss, she realized. In case things went wrong. In case they got separated and never saw each other again. A chill wind blew and the trees creaked overhead. As the moments passed, and the night grew colder, she tried to commit every detail to memory. Because she knew, as he did, that every step they took could end in disaster. She had not counted on this complication, had not wanted this attraction. But here it was, shimmering between them. The fact it couldn’t last, that any feelings they had for each other were doomed by who she was, and who he was, only made those feelings all the sweeter. Will you miss me someday, Jordan Tavistock? she wondered. As much as I’ll miss you?
At last he turned and looked at the house. “I think it’s time,” he said softly.
She, too, turned to face the house. The wind swept the lawn, bringing with it the smell of dead leaves and chill earth. The scent of autumn, she thought. Too soon, winter would be upon them….
She eased away from the hedge and began to move through the shadows. Jordan was right behind her.
They crossed the lawn, their shoes sinkin
g into wet grass. Beneath the bedroom balcony they crouched to reassess the situation. They heard only the wind and the rustle of leaves.
“I’ll go first,” he said.
Before she could protest, he was scrambling up the wisteria vine. She winced at the rattle of branches, expecting at any moment that the balcony doors would fly open, that Whitmore would appear waving a shotgun. Lucky for them, old Whitmore still seemed to be a sound sleeper. Jordan made it all the way up without a hitch.
Clea followed and dropped noiselessly onto the balcony.
“Locked,” said Jordan, trying the doorknob.
“Expected as much,” she whispered. “Move away.”
He stepped aside and watched in respectful silence as she shone a penlight on the lock. “This should be even easier than the one downstairs,” she whispered and gently inserted the makeshift L-pick she’d fashioned that afternoon using a wire hanger and a pair of pliers. “Circa 1920. Probably came with the house. Let’s hope it’s not so rusty that it bends my…” She gave a soft chuckle of satisfaction as the lock clicked open. Glancing at Jordan she said wryly, “There’s nothing like a good stiff tool.”
He answered, just as wryly, “I’ll remember to keep one on me.”
The room was as she’d remembered it, the medieval curtained bed, the wardrobe and antique dresser, the desk and tea table near the balcony doors. She’d searched the desk and dresser before; now she’d take up where she had left off.
“You search the wardrobe,” she whispered. “I’ll do the nightstands.”
They set to work. By the thin beam of her penlight she examined the contents of the first nightstand. In the drawers she found magazines, cigarettes and various other items that told her Guy Delancey had used this bed for activities beyond mere sleeping. A flicker of movement overhead made her aim the penlight at the ceiling. There was a mirror mounted above the bed. To think she had actually considered a romp in this bachelor playpen! Turning her attention back to the nightstand, she saw that the magazines featured naked ladies galore, and not very attractive ones. Entertainment, no doubt, for the nights Guy couldn’t find female companionship.
She searched the second nightstand and found a similar collection of reading material. So intent was she on poking for hidden drawers, she didn’t notice the creak of floorboards in the hallway. Her only warning was a sharp hiss from Jordan, and then the bedroom door flew open.
The lights sprang on overhead.
Clea, caught in midcrouch beside the bed, could only blink in surprise at the shotgun barrel pointed at her head.
Ten
The gun was wavering ominously in Whitmore’s unsteady grasp. The old butler looked most undignified in his ratty pajamas, but there was no mistaking the glint of triumph in his eyes.
“Gotcha!” he barked. “Thinkin’ to rob a dead man, are you? Think you can get away with it again? Well, I’m not such an old fool!”
“Apparently not,” said Clea. She didn’t dare glance in Jordan’s direction, but off in her peripheral field of vision she spied him crouched beside the wardrobe, out of Whitmore’s view. The old man hadn’t yet realized there were two burglars in the room.
“Come on, come on! Out from behind that bed! Where I can see you!” ordered Whitmore.
Slowly Clea rose to her feet, praying that the man’s trigger finger wasn’t as unsteady as his grip. As she straightened to her full height, Whitmore’s gaze widened. He focused on her chest, on the unmistakable swell of breasts.
“Ye’re only a woman,” he marveled.
“Only?” She gave him a wounded look. “How insulting.”
At the sound of her voice, his eyes narrowed. He scanned her grease-blackened face. “You sound familiar. Do I know you?”
She shook her head.
“Of course! You come to the house with poor Master Delancey! One of his lady friends!” The grip on the shotgun steadied. “Come ’ere, then! Away from the bed, you!”
“You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”
“We’re going to wait for the police. They’ll be here any minute.”
The police. There wasn’t much time. Somehow they had to get that gun away from the old fool.
She caught a glimpse of Jordan, signaling to her, urging her to shift the butler’s gaze toward the left.
“Come on, move out from behind the bed!” ordered Whitmore. “Out where I can get a clear shot if I have to!”
Obediently she crawled across the mattress and climbed off. Then she took a sideways step, causing Whitmore to turn leftward. His back was now squarely turned to Jordan.
“I’m not what you think,” she said.
“Denying you’re a common thief, are you?”
“Certainly not a common one, anyway.”
Jordan was approaching from the rear. Clea forced herself not to stare at him, not to give Whitmore any clue of what was about to happen….
What was about to happen? Surely Jordan wouldn’t bop the old codger on the head? It might kill him.
Jordan raised his arms. He was clutching a pair of Guy Delancey’s boxer shorts, was going to pull them like a hood over old Whitmore’s head. Somehow Clea had to get that gun pointed in another direction. If startled, Whitmore might automatically let fly a round.
She gave a pitiful sob and fell to her knees on the floor. “You can’t let them arrest me!” she wailed. “I’m afraid of prison!”
“Should’ve thought of that before you broke in,” said Whitmore.
“I was desperate! I had to feed my children. There was no other way….” She began to sob wretchedly.
Whitmore was staring down at her, astonished by this bizarre display. The shotgun barrel was no longer pointed at her head.
That’s when Jordan yanked the boxer shorts over Whitmore’s face.
Clea dived sideways, just as the gun exploded. Pellets whizzed past. She scrambled frantically back to her feet and saw that Jordan already had Whitmore’s arms restrained, and that the gun had fallen from the old man’s grasp. Clea scooped it up and shoved it in the wardrobe.
“Don’t hurt me!” pleaded Whitmore, his voice muffled by the makeshift hood. The boxer shorts had little red hearts. Had Delancey really pranced around in little red hearts? “Please!” moaned Whitmore.
“We’re just going to keep you out of trouble,” said Clea. Quickly she bound the butler’s hands and feet with Delancey’s silk ties and left him trussed on the bed. “Now you lie there and be a good boy.”
“I promise!”
“And maybe we’ll let you live.”
There was a pause. Then Whitmore asked fearfully, “What do you mean by maybe?”
“Tell us where Delancey keeps his weapons collection.”
“What weapons?”
“Antique swords. Knives. Where are they?”
“There’s not much time!” hissed Jordan. “Let’s get out of here.”
Clea ignored him. “Where are they?” she repeated.
The butler whimpered. “Under the bed. That’s where he keeps them!”
Clea and Jordan dropped to their knees. They saw nothing beneath the rosewood frame but carpet and a few dust balls.
Somewhere in the night, a siren was wailing.
“Time to go,” muttered Jordan.
“No. Wait!” Clea focused on an almost imperceptible crack running the length of the bed frame. A seam in the wood. She reached underneath and tugged.
A hidden drawer glided out.
At her first glimpse of the contents, she gave an involuntary gasp of wonder. Jewels glittered in hammered-gold scabbards. Sword blades of finely tempered Spanish steel lay in gleaming display. In the deepest corner were stored the daggers. There were six of them, all exquisitely crafted. She knew at once which dagger was the Eye of Kashmir. The star sapphire mounted in the hilt gave it away.
“They were his pride and joy,” moaned Whitmore. “And now you’re stealing them.”
“I’m only taking one,” said Clea, snatching up the
Eye of Kashmir. “And it didn’t belong to him, anyway.”
The siren was louder now and closing in.
“Let’s go!” said Jordan.
Clea jumped to her feet and started toward the balcony. “Cheerio!” she called over her shoulder. “No hard feelings, right?”
“Bloody unlikely!” came the growl from under the boxer shorts.
She and Jordan scrambled down the wisteria vine and took off across the lawn, headed at a mad dash for the woods fringing the property. Just as they reached the cover of trees, a police car careened around the bend, siren screaming. Any second now the police would find Whitmore tied up on the bed and then all hell would break loose. The threat of pursuit was enough to send Jordan and Clea scrambling deep into the woods. Replay of the night we met, thought Clea. Hanging around Jordan Tavistock must be bad luck; it always seemed to bring the police on her tail.
The sting of branches whipping her face, the ache of her muscles, didn’t slow her pace. She kept running, listening for sounds of pursuit. A moment later she heard distant shouting, and she knew the chase had begun.
“Damn,” she muttered, stumbling over a tree root.
“Can you make it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He glanced back toward the house, toward their pursuers. “I have an idea.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her through a thinning copse of trees. They stumbled into a clearing. Just ahead, they could see the lights of a cottage.
“Let’s hope they don’t keep any dogs about,” he said and started toward the cottage.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Just a small theft. Which, I’m sorry to say, seems to be getting routine for me.”
“What are you stealing? A car?”
“Not exactly.” Through the darkness his teeth gleamed at her in a smile. “Bicycles.”
In The Laughing Man Pub, Simon Trott stood alone at the bar, nursing a mug of Guinness. No one bothered him, and he bothered no one, and that was the way he liked it. None of the usual poking and prodding of a stranger by the curious locals. The villagers here, it seemed, valued a man’s privacy, which was all to the better, as Trott had no tolerance tonight for even minor annoyances. He was not in a good mood. That meant he was dangerous.
In Their Footsteps / Thief of Hearts Page 35
