Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Peggy looked doubtful. 'I'm sure he would have been glad of some supper. Poor little chap. Mark, did you ... ? I mean, if he's in difficulties ...'

  'Don't worry, Peggy,' said Mr Franklin. 'He went away well satisfied.'

  13

  Although no one at Oxton Hall could guess it, Mr Franklin's behaviour for the rest of the evening did him greater credit than anything he had shown in public since his arrival in England. There were no children in the house, but with Arthur and Poppy and the younger set the festivities were strictly of the nursery variety - the innocences of blind man's buff, musical chairs, 'sardines', and hideand-seek being readily adaptable to pursuits which ended with the young ladies emerging flushed and bright-eyed from cupboards and distant nooks of the house, and the young men guiltily smoothing hair and clothing. But at intervals there were less boisterous activities like charades, consequences, and a treasure hunt, in which the older guests joined, and in these no one was more imperturbably genial and carefree than Mr Franklin. When he drew the card which made him detective in the murder game, he conducted his investigation with a concentrated gravity which suggested that he had not a thought on his mind beyond the success of the party; no one, watching the skill with which he trapped Colonel Dammit into contradicting himself as to his whereabouts at the moment of the crime, or reducing Peggy to giggling confusion by his ruthless interrogation on what she had eaten at lunch, would have guessed that only an hour earlier he had heard virtual sentence of death passed on himself. Even Sir Charles, who had shrewdly guessed that Mr Logan had been an unwelcome visitor, never dreamed that he had been more than some reduced old acquaintance on the scrounge; if there had been anything serious on Mr Franklin's mind he could hardly have devoted his thoughts so successfully to the ingenious destruction of Arthur's alibi - for, of course, Arthur was the guilty party, as Mr Franklin had known from the moment that an elaborately tremulous scream from the billiard room had proclaimed that Poppy was the victim. It had taken her a good ten minutes to scream after the lights went out, which told the 'detective' all that he needed to know.

  Indeed, the only time during the whole evening when Mr Franklin allowed his thoughts to dwell with any force on the fatally dangerous ordeal that lay ahead of him, was in those ten minutes when he and the other guests waited in the darkened house before the `murder' was committed. He had leisure then to think, unseen, standing in the shadows of the hall, with the giggling and rustling and occasional startled squealing of the other players coming out of the dark, sometimes distant, sometimes close, as the nervous ones sought quiet corners,'' and the extroverts bumped into each other, and the amorous found havens to pant and fondle in. And while the game went on in the safe, comfortably eerie dark of the old creaking house, somewhere in the real dark outside another small figure would be going its purposeful way, to whatever its secret lodging might be, there to open a drawer, or a case, or a parcel, and draw out the pearl-handled Peacemaker (if it still existed), and touch the cylinder, check the chambers, heft the heavy iron in hand, and conjure it out of sight beneath the clothing. And then to stand, probably in candle-light, the bright eyes fixed and steady, considering the where and when .. .

  He was mad, of course. It might seem incredible that he had crossed a continent and an ocean to track down his man, determined to kill, wantonly and uselessly, unless he got what he wanted, but then Curry himself had always been incredible. Perhaps all the men of violence were; perhaps he was himself. Really, he had no place here, in this life of order and form and accepted stability - oh, they knew about violence, and life and death, these people, none better, but their civilisation was built on a system that kept these things in their proper place and time and occasion. No doubt Sir Charles Clayton, landowner, justice of the peace, pillar of the community, who would express censure if he heard that a neighbour had so much as raised his voice to another, had in another time and place done things, and faced evils and dangers, and known enemies and hardships that would have made the Wild Bunch draw rein and turn on to another road - but that would have been elsewhere, in his other life: such things had no place in his existence as a Norfolk squire.

  And he, Mark Franklin, had supposed that he could put his other life behind him, and find a new one, and they would remain poles apart, those two existences, and never meet. He had forgotten that there were men like Kid Curry who recognised no divisions or frontiers, who never were even aware that such things existed, who had one set of rules to live by and would apply them indiscriminately. That afternoon, a man had brushed past Curry with an offensive remark, and Curry had observed later that if he had been heeled he might have put a bullet through that man's head. Only someone who knew the Currys of the world, as Mr Franklin did, could know that it had been true. Not a jest, or a boast, but a plain fact. Lord Lacy, if he had been told of a Western desperado who, in a cattle-town, had shot a youth dead for impertinently knocking a cup from his hand (which Mr Franklin remembered vividly) would have believed it; it would have seemed shocking, but not inappropriate, to the time and place. But if Lord Lacy had been told that for a boorish remark at the front door of an English country-house he might himself have been coldly shot dead by a perfect stranger, he would have laughed the idea to scorn. The idea, to put it mildly, would have been out of place. He would not have understood people like Kid Curry. Mr Franklin, understanding, was under no illusions; he knew what would happen, and what he himself must do ... and at that moment Poppy squealed with superb histrionic fervour in the billiard-room, and he turned the future out of his mind and calmly played his part in the present.

  It was all the easier because his mind was made up, and he knew there was nothing to be done for the next twelve hours at least. So he joined in the games, and in the noisy chatter over the buffet supper, and in the songs round the piano afterward, and kissed Peggy a long and happy good-night before the study fire, talking over the party and Christmas generally, but mostly about the busy pleasures ahead after New Year - back to London to see about the house, and the servants, and the countless details of the wedding, and the final arrangements for their honeymoon cruise. Peggy sighed contentedly in his arms, yawning and shivering with weariness, murmuring drowsily until they finally stirred themselves and went their separate ways to bed.

  After breakfast next morning most of the guests took their leave; Mr Franklin was to have stayed to lunch, but excused himself on the ground that there were things to attend to at Lancing Manor that he would rather not leave until after New Year, which was going to be such a busy time. He drove himself, with Samson beside him, and if the valet was surprised at the roundabout route they took, he made no comment; it brought them home without going through Castle Lancing village, and when they drew up at the front gate Mr Franklin sat for quite a minute after Samson had opened up, studying the trees and the surrounding hedges before finally driving up to the front door. There he lost no time in entering the house, leaving Samson to put away the horse and trap.

  For the rest of the day he stayed indoors, working in his study or bedroom. This consisted largely of sitting in silent contemplation, or of examining the view from various windows in the house, keeping back out of sight from the outside - indeed, it did not look like work at all, but it was, of a specialised and exacting nature. Then, having sent Samson on an errand to the village shop, he went quickly out of the back door and across to the stable, where he closed the door carefully from the inside.

  The trap-horse was munching contentedly in its stall; Mr Franklin patted it and talked to it before surveying the stable proper, a draughty apartment perhaps forty feet long, its walls of crude planks fairly badly fitted together. At one end was a rough bench on which lay items of saddlery; on it Mr Franklin laid one of his Remington pistols, and a heavy horn-hilted hunting-knife. He examined the pistol carefully to ensure that it was unloaded, closed it, and weighed it first in his left hand, then in his right; then he spun it dexterously on his forefinger, turned it in his hand, spun it again, and finall
y thrust it into the waistband of his trousers across his stomach, unsheathed the knife, and took his stand facing the far wall, perhaps thirty feet away. He thought for a moment, changed the position of the pistol at his waist, and resumed his stance, the bare knife hanging loosely from the fingers of his right hand.

  A moment he stood, and then sharply whipped back his right hand and threw the knife, like a bowler releasing a ball, underhand. It flew along the stable, turning once, while his right hand jerked the pistol with remarkable speed from his belt and levelled it before his face, covering a spot on the far wall. The knife buried its point in the wall a foot to the right of the spot, and on a slightly higher elevation. Mr Franklin shook his head, retrieved the knife, and tried again.

  A dozen times he repeated the exercise, and on four out of the last five tries the knife struck precisely on the spot which his pistol covered. Of course the satisfactory way to do it would have been to throw the knife, draw his pistol and fire, and see if the knife entered the bullet-hole, but he had no wish to wake the echoes of Castle Lancing with revolver-fire. He was satisfied with his practice, and went quickly back to the house with the weapons concealed beneath his jacket.

  He spent the evening in his study, with the thick curtains closely drawn, wondering how he could get Samson out of the way. In the end, when the servant brought his supper, Mr Franklin simply told him to catch the morning train to London, and spend some days consulting with Mr Pride about staff for the house in Wilton Crescent; since Peggy herself had already taken care of this, and Samson knew it, the instruction was fairly vague and unconvincing, but it was the best Mr Franklin could manage in the circumstances. Samson accepted it without demur at the time, but when he had returned to his kitchen he stood for some minutes stroking his square chin thoughtfully. Then on an impulse he went upstairs, and came down after a while very slowly, pausing to stare at the study door before returning to his own quarters. Half an hour later he emerged with his usual light, steady step, crossed to the study, knocked and entered.

  'I'll remove the tray now, sir.'

  'Oh ... thanks, Thomas.' Mr Franklin, stretched out in his chair before the fire, roused himself, and yawned. 'Yes ... then get yourself an early night. You can catch the morning train.' He expected to hear the tray being lifted; when it was not he turned his head. Samson was standing on the hearth-rug, hands clasped before him, impassive, evidently waiting. 'What is it, Thomas?'

  'I have been thinking, sir. Perhaps it would be best if I did not go to London.'

  Mr Franklin stared at him. 'Not go? But I want you to.'

  'I think, sir, that I might be of greater use here.'

  'I've told you - I can manage perfectly on my own. There's nothing on earth to do, that I can't -'

  'I was thinking, sir, of any emergency that might arise.' He said it in a perfectly flat, matter-of-fact way, and Mr Franklin slowly sat upright in his chair.

  'Thomas, just what are you talking about?'

  'The gentleman who called to see you yesterday, sir, at Oxton Hall - Mr Logan.' Samson was watching Mr Franklin carefully, and thought he saw the slightest flicker of reaction. 'I spoke to Jake in the village today, and there is no doubt he is the person who inquired for you here on Christmas Eve. The carter's boy was in the Apple Tree this evening, sir; as you know, his duties take him in and out of Thetford station, and according to him Mr Logan boarded the Cambridge train this afternoon, sir.'

  This time no reaction was visible, beyond a long cold stare which made Samson feel decidedly uncomfortable. Mr Franklin sat for a moment, and then said:

  'I can't imagine what you think that has to do with anything - or with your going to London, or this nonsense about some emergency- '

  'It's no use, sir - if you'll forgive me for saying so. I know when I'm being got out of the way.' Samson's tone was gentle. 'You've been cleaning your revolvers. And behaving rather strangely since last night, if I may mention it.'

  'What the blazes d'you mean - strangely?'

  'You didn't sleep last night, sir, at Oxton. I noticed that, in passing. Then this morning, you took a very peculiar way home, sir, and you were on the look-out all the time, left and right - I didn't think much of it till we got home, and I saw you looking over the garden. What we used to call "quartering ground", in the cavalry.' Samson looked almost apologetic. 'You've been doing the same thing, sir, all day, from the windows. I couldn't think what it meant, until I remembered that Mr Logan, sir, in the hall at Oxton.'

  'What about him?'

  'He's a wrong 'un, sir. A very dangerous wrong 'un, or I'm no judge. And now you're cleaning your pistols, and trying to get me off the premises. Well, I put two and two together, sir, and the four they add up to is that you're expecting him back, sir. With deadly intent, sometime this week, and probably by night.'

  Mr Franklin stood up abruptly, walked across to the door, and then walked back, evidently undecided. Then he turned to face his servant.

  'All right, Thomas. You've earned top marks. You're absolutely right.' He paused. 'All the more reason why I want you out of the way. This is a personal matter strictly personal. It's got nothing to do with you, and I won't have you mixed up in it. Understand?'

  'Certainly, sir,' said Samson. 'If I may take the liberty - I take it you've thought about the police, sir?'

  'You take it right, Thomas - and they wouldn't be any help. At best, it would only postpone ... and from what you tell me, there isn't time.' He stood, calculating, and then said abruptly. 'Anyway, Thomas, thanks for your offer. I appreciate it more than I can say. But I won't have it. You catch the London train tomorrow morning, you hear?'

  'No, sir.' Samson shook his head. 'I'm not going.'

  Mr Franklin took a deep breath, and his jaw set in anger, but before he could speak Samson was going on: 'It's no use, sir, as I said before. I don't know what's behind it, of course, and I'm not asking. But I

  know that man's been threatening you, and he's the kind that will carry out his threat - you think that yourself, sir, and you know him. Very well - I'm not saying this is the kind of work I expected when I took service with you, sir, but since it's happened, and there's no other way-I'm quite sure you've considered the police and that sort of thing very carefully, sir- then I suggest we use our heads and make the best use we can of our resources. I'm certainly not leaving you on your own, sir, and that's that. If you wish to give me notice, that's another matter, but you still won't get me out of this house for the next fortnight - not unless you go too, sir.'

  The quiet finality of it was not to be gainsaid, and Mr Franklin knew better than to try. But where anger or bluster would have been useless, common sense might prevail. He looked at the stocky, powerful figure, the blunt, calm face, the steady eyes, and nodded to a nearby chair.

  `Sit down, Thomas.' Samson sat, hands on knees, easily upright. 'In the first place, it isn't a question of defending this house. I'm going to have to meet this man head-on; either he kills me or I kill him. There's no safety short of that. And I know him, how he works and fights, the deadly skill he has - believe me, it's something beyond your understanding. You don't know his kind, or his world - which means that you wouldn't be any help. In fact, you'd be more of a hindrance. I know you think - '

  'Beg pardon, sir, but perhaps I know more than you imagine,' said Samson. 'I was in the light dragoons, in South Africa, during the Zulu troubles, and in both the Boer Wars. I'm more than competent with small arms, sir - '

  'That's what I mean, Thomas,' Mr Franklin interrupted. 'I'm not talking about army training - '

  'Neither am I, sir. Between enlistments I worked in the goldfields, and in Kimberley at the time of the diamond rush. I was a sergeant in the Cape Mounted Rifles, sir - perhaps you've heard of them. From what I understand, South Africa wasn't very different from your own ... er, Wild West, sir. I had quite a lot to do with persons like Mr Logan, sir. That's how I knew what he was, as soon as I laid eyes on him.' He hesitated. 'That's how I knew about you, sir, when w
e first met in London.'

  Mr Franklin stared. 'How you knew about me?'

  Samson cleared his throat diffidently. 'I knew you had made your living out of doors, sir, that you were American, and that you weren't accustomed to wealth, if you'll pardon my saying so. Then, when you took me on down here - well, you'd bought a property very out of the way. And a few weeks ago, when we emptied your trunk to stow it away, I noticed your pistol-holsters were cut away round the trigger-guard. Very few people who use revolvers do that, sir.' He raised his eyes to his employer's. 'I'm not trying to sound smart, sir, but I wondered if something like this might not happen, eventually.'

  'Well, I'm damned!' said Mr Franklin, and laughed shortly. 'You don't miss much. And we know you can add two and two. But in this case the four they make could be a crook - or a murderer, or worse. Couldn't they? For all you know, Logan may have the right on his