Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  side.'

  Samson shook his head. 'I've seen him, sir, and I know you.' He smiled and met his employer's eye squarely. 'If it comes to that, sir, I might be a crook, or murderer, or worse - for all you know.' He waited a moment, and then got to his feet. 'Might I ask, sir, when you expect him to come back?'

  This eminently practical question brought Mr Franklin back to his - or now, it seemed, to their - immediate predicament. Obviously there was no point in further academic discussion with Samson; he had an unexpected ally, and that was that, and the more he thought of it, the more reassuring it was. Even if Samson was less expert than he thought himself - and Mr Franklin decided that he wouldn't be prepared to bet on it - he would still improve the odds considerably. That being so, he could plan accordingly.

  He crossed to the table, and opened the ordnance survey map he had been consulting earlier that day. 'The carrier's boy says he caught the Cambridge train. That's in character - it looks as though he's leaving the district. All right - he'll ride for a few stops, maybe a dozen miles, and then drop off when the train's moving - he's had a lot of practice, believe me. Then he'll circle across country, keeping well hidden; he'll wait until tomorrow to do that, since he doesn't know the territory and can't risk moving in the dark. By tomorrow afternoon he'll be around Castle Lancing, watching the house - but nobody'll know he's there. Then . . .' Mr Franklin turned away from the map and stood considering, his eyes half-closed; he was seeing Curry, holed up in the woods perhaps a couple of furlongs from the house, on the side away from the village, watching as dusk came down, the dark figure crouched invisible under a bush, the bright eyes fixed in unblinking attention on the distant house and trees, the ears instinctively alert for any noise in the empty green around him.

  'He knows I know he's coming - but he doesn't know that I have a good idea when he'll come. Until you told me he'd left Thetford today, I was figuring maybe two, even three days - he's the kind that would reckon it a good idea to try my nerves by waiting. But then he knows I know that, too - so he'll come sooner than he reckons I'll expect. Yes, tomorrow night, probably. He'll lie up until dark, and then move in - and by dawn he'll be lying up, snug and handy, within twenty yards of the house. Oh, he won't try to break in - he'll wait for hours, days if necessary, and never move above a foot, and the moment I show my head out of doors . . . one fast shot, maybe two. That's all he'll need. And then he'll be gone - into nowhere, pick up a moving train, and by the time the Norwich police or Scotland Yard have finished examining my corpse, he'll be in London, or on a boat, even.'

  He glanced at Samson, who was considering him gravely, and went on: 'There's an outside chance he might try to get a long shot at me - if he got somewhere fairly close by tomorrow afternoon. But I doubt it. He won't have a rifle, and he wasn't much with one, anyway. A handgun is his weapon - and I doubt if even South Africa has anything better or faster. He's very, very good, Thomas; in fact, he's the best, and a split second is all he needs, anywhere up to thirty paces.'

  Samson said: 'How should we tackle him, sir?'

  'We won't,' said Mr Franklin. 'Or at least you won't. You stay indoors tomorrow, all day - and keep away from windows. Late afternoon, I'll go out to the stable, or on the front path, to let him have a look at me. Then inside again, and when it gets dark you light the study lamp. I'll be outside by then, but he won't have seen me this time. You douse the lamp around ten, and light my bedroom for half an hour. Then douse that light and come downstairs; take your post at the kitchen window, so you can watch the back yard. I'll be in the front garden, because that's where he'll come, if I know anything. And when he does, I'll be ready for him.'

  'And then, sir?'

  'Then I'll kill him.'

  Samson may well have been on the point of saying 'Very good, sir,' but instead he gave the statement a moment's silent thought, and then said: 'Is it possible that he might have taken up his position in the garden by tomorrow morning, sir?'

  'Coming tonight, you mean? Now?' For a moment the possibility startled Mr Franklin, and he automatically glanced towards the drawn curtains. It promised to be a stormy night; the wind was already rising and sighing through the bare branches of the chestnuts round the house. In imagination he could picture the December dark before moonrise; the empty fields towards Thetford, the shadowy figure moving silently down the dripping hedgerows, patiently feeling each step through the night, skirting the copses, waiting in the ditches before flitting silently across the deserted roads, and so to the walls of Lancing Manor. Then the soft rustle over the wall, the gentle footfall in the damp grass, the dark shadow beneath the trees, eyes fixed on the dull crimson glow of the curtained study window, beyond which he and Samson were standing, invisible, waiting. How many miles? How many hours? He made a hasty calculation and shook his head. 'That train left Thetford around five, didn't it?'

  'Five-twelve, sir.'

  'Then he couldn't make it, not tonight - not through country he doesn't know, in the dark. Tomorrow night'll be the earliest. But we'll each keep a loaded Remington handy from now on, just in case. You know how to handle one?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'How well?'

  Samson considered. 'You wish me to keep guard at the kitchen window, sir. If I were to see Logan in the yard at any time, I should be confident of hitting him - even in the dark, sir. The moon is almost full, sir.'

  'Is it, though? Well, moon or not, don't let drive at this fellow unless you're dead certain of hitting him with your first shot, for you won't get a second chance. You understand?' He stared at Samson doubtfully. 'In fact, if you do see him - don't shoot. Run quickly through the house, as fast as you can without making a noise, and strike a match in the front hall window - and blow it out as soon as you've struck it. I'll see it - and if he can bushwhack me after that, well, I'll deserve it.'

  They stood together in the silence of the study, listening to the gentle soughing of the wind, and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Mr Franklin said quietly:

  'This is a crazy business. But it's happening.' He took a deep breath. 'And I thought I was joking when I said our tranquil days were over. You're sure you want to be in it, Thomas?' 'Yes, thank you, sir.'

  'Don't thank me, man. It's I who thank you - but understand me: you keep under cover, and don't start trying to play Buffalo Bill. By the way, his name isn't Logan - or, at least, it isn't what he usually answers to. His real name's Kid Curry - ever hear of him?'

  'I can't say I have, sir.'

  'No, well - he's got eight dead men to his credit that I know of, law officers, mostly, and not a dentist or school-teacher among 'em, if you know what I mean. And he likes killing people.'

  'I see, sir.' The clock struck the first note of ten, and Samson glanced at it. 'I notice you made very little of your supper, sir. Perhaps if I were to prepare some sandwiches - there is some rather good roast ham, and cold beef, sir. And a pot of coffee?'

  'Good idea-make enough for two, and bring it all in here - you can regard yourself as on active service,' he added, 'so we'll mess together, whatever your social objections about mixing with me. Dammit all,' said Mr Franklin, irritably, 'you're all right, Thomas! And I'm .. . oh, well! But look here - don't you want to know what this is all about, even? Yes; I know you say you know me, and that you can tell Curry's a bad man - which he is, by God - but even so ... you're putting your neck on the block, you realise that? Forty-eight hours from now there's an even chance I'll be dead, and if I know you, you'll try to do something about it, and that means there'll be two of us stiff. The least you're entitled to is an explan -'

  'I'd rather not, sir. Really.' Samson picked up the supper tray. 'I shall bring the sandwiches in a few moments, sir.'

  They ate the sandwiches and drank the coffee by the fire, more or less in silence: there seemed to be very little to say. Then Mr Franklin brought down the Remingtons and a shotgun, which he intended to have to hand when the time came. 'If there's one advantage I fancy against a guy like Curry,
it's a nice spread of buckshot. Here, take one of the pistols and load her up.' He handed a Remington to Samson, and watched critically while his servant broke the weapon, slid the glittering brass cartridges into the cylinder, and carefully closed it.

  'Suppose the clock is Curry's head,' said Mr Franklin. 'Let's see you draw a bead on him.'

  Samson glanced at the clock and covered it with his pistol at hip-level. Mr Franklin nodded approvingly: he had fully expected to see the pistol extended at eye-level, possibly over a crooked elbow. 'Good enough, Thomas. Now, you keep that piece next to you from now on. I pray to God you're not going to have to use it.'

  'Very good, sir. I've locked up, but I think that I shall go round again, to make sure everything is secure. You will be sleeping in your own room, sir? Very good, I shall keep to mine. In that way we shall have both ground and upper floor occupied. Good night, sir.'

  Yet it was another two hours before they finally said good night for the last time. Mr Franklin had no wish to turn in, and Samson seemed to be spinning out his duties in the kitchen, moving about in his apron, checking windows, turning down lights, putting things in cupboards, while Mr Franklin moved aimlessly about between study and hall, reluctant to settle in upstairs. Indeed, he was struggling to accustom himself to the reality of the situation, to attune his mind and reactions, in the cosy peace of Lancing Manor, to the violent necessity of that life out yonder, where the pistol, not the tweed jacket, had been the first article of wear for the well-dressed man; where the day's business had been struggle and danger and quite often wounding and death, not driving to Oxton for tea, or watching Peggy arrange flowers on a side-table, or strolling through the quiet village, stick in hand, exchanging salutations with Mrs Laker and the other countryfolk who called him 'Squire' now to his face. It was so difficult to recognise what was real, and what had been real, and reconcile the two - he had made the contrasts many times over the past two months, but always they had been worlds apart. Playing bridge with the King and Mrs Keppel, and facing the Kid across the greasy table at five-card stud; trying to flirt with Lady Helen, and hearing the whore yelling about her good manners in a Fort Worth hook-shop; goodtiming with Pip at Monico's above the fashionable diners, and seeing the boys dance on the tables at the Bella Union; sitting in a Thetford teashop, and waiting out in Cheyenne for Deaf Charley Hanks to show; strolling on Piccadilly with morning-coat and gloves to take tea at the Ritz, or slogging up the muddy hill at Tonopah with the dead-weight of the dirt sledge and harness cutting into his shoulders; standing bare-headed in the soft rain of Lancing churchyard with the damp grass underfoot while they buried some rustic of the village and turned away sniffing and soft-voiced, and watching Dave Lant throw the last rock on to the pile that covered who-was-it with a mutter of `There, you poor ole bastard, that'll have to keep the dogs off you,' before they swung into their saddles again in the heat of sweaty cotton and leather, dirty hands on the guns and bridles; playing truth or consequences in the stuffy, well-bred comfort of Sir Charles's drawingroom, and watching the chuck-a-luck cage spinning in the smoky atmosphere of a Casper saloon; petting with Peggy in the scented warmth before the fire, and shaking his head at the Spanish girl on the balcony outside old Davis's room; cucumber sandwiches at the Ritz and beef hash at Hole-in-the-Wall; following the King from dining room to drawing-room and backing out of the jail in Deadwood with Curry hand-cuffed beside him and his gun trained on the glaring deputy; Mrs Keppel's dainty fingers and old Davis's cracked nails - it was no use trying to reconcile the two worlds.

  And yet they were one now, because out there, through the damp dark, the old life - the old death - was approaching to run him down in his choicely-furnished bachelor residence in this peaceful corner of England, a bloody road agent was coming to violate the civilised seclusion of himself and the tidy, middle-aged man in the apron with his sleeves neatly rolled up as he polished a glass methodically and set it on a shelf in his pantry.

  Finally Mr Franklin took himself another pot of coffee and went up to his room, but he did not get into bed. He stretched out, in shirt and trousers, drinking coffee and listening to the rising wind and the steady patter of rain on the roof. He heard the hall clock strike two, and the distant sound of Samson's bedroom door closing at the back of the ground-floor. He smoked one cigarette after another, and let his coffee go cold in the cup - was he mad, waiting like this, playing into Curry's hands, letting the old world make the rules? What was to prevent him from driving into Thetford early tomorrow, striding into the police station and telling them that Kid Curry, notorious desperado and gun-fighter, was prowling the fields of Norfolk with a six-shooter in his pocket and murder in his heart? `Curry, you say, sir. I see - would that be Curry with a "y", sir, or an "i-e"?' They would think he was a lunatic.

  And there was another objection to official interference. `And why should this man Curry want to kill you, sir? You knew him in the United States, where he is a wanted murderer, did you? How did you come to know him, sir?' Inevitably, however discreetly he answered the questions - he could almost hear the patient, relentless voice of some Scotland Yard detective - in the end the telegraph would take the names of Curry and Franklin back across the Atlantic, to the Pinkerton office, to Wells Fargo and U. P., to Denver and Laramie and Casper, to evoke uncomfortable replies. It was true there were no warrants or rewards attached to his name - but it was still known, to a score of peace officers in four states. There might be no witnesses now to come forward, certainly not at this distance, no evidence to detain him even for a second in any state of the Union, let alone England - but there would still be memories, circumstantial facts, gossip and rumours, and they could make an ugly cloud over his name, and Peggy's, and her family's. There was a headline in the Cheyenne paper, for whoever cared to look for it: 'Two Killed In Street Shooting: O. C. Hanks Dead, Tracy Wounded In Duel With Franklin'; much could be made of that, and the death of an innocent bystander in the blast of Tracy's shotgun, even though Mr Franklin himself had been allowed to leave town with his guns on and his innocence pronounced. 'Members of the notorious Wild Bunch ... Hole-in-the-Wall thieves fall out ... vendetta among the railroad brigands. ..'That was the brush he would be tarred with, fairly enough, if all the facts came out.

  Which was why he must wait, and meet it in the old way, and the final act in the melodrama of the 'railroad brigands' must be played out in the parish of Castle Lancing.

  He stirred and blinked his eyes open to find that the lamp was burning down to the last of its oil. He must have been asleep, for his right arm was numb beneath him, and he had to use his left to lift it, swearing softly at the tingle of pins and needles. The last chime echoed dimly from downstairs - that must have been what woke him, and he pulled out his half-hunter for confirmation. Four o'clock. Stiffly he rolled off the bed - there was no sense in lying around half-dressed when he could be between the sheets. It sounded as though the wind had dropped; cautiously, and keeping close against the wall, he touched aside the edge of the curtain and glanced out and down, towards the rear of the house. The moon was up, bathing the side garden and bushes in white light and black shadow; the servants' quarters projected slightly from the main building, and he could see the dull glow behind the curtains of Samson's window. Mr Franklin gave a tired smile; he was not the only one waking, then. Well, Samson could make them another pot of coffee, and Mr Franklin was about to let the curtain drop when he froze suddenly, his breath stopping with a sob deep in his throat.

  Far out, at the end of a hedgerow across the moonlit meadow - had something moved? It was hard to tell in that silvery, unreal light - there, again, the shadow at the end of the hedge seemed to have wavered momentarily. His hand strayed automatically towards the lamp, and stopped - the last thing he must do was turn it out, or give any indication that he had seen . . . whatever it was he had seen. Moonlight could play odd tricks, but if his senses told him anything at all it was that something had stirred out yonder, beside the ditch and hedgerow which ran acros
s his line of vision, perhaps three hundred yards away. He stared steadily, through the tiny gap between wall and curtain ... it couldn't be, surely, so soon? And it was one hell of a coincidence that he had happened to glance out, just then ... except that his instinct, which he had learned to trust, might have prompted him to do just that. He felt the hairs prickle on his neck as he realised that the distant hedge, running directly across his front, began in a tongue of the woodland - any stalker wishing to approach his house from the wood must surely come along the hedge, following it across the far side of the field to a smaller hedge which turned at right angles and came in towards the back of his property. His eyes never wavered from the distant gap - yes, there was something there, for certain, something living. How far off? Three hundred yards, maybe more - he had ample time to slip out of a window on the opposite side, and steal unseen to some hiding-place near the stables - and wait. And if he was wrong - if the movement out there was a cow, or some nocturnal prowling animal - it would do him no harm to skulk in his grounds in the kind of conditions he could expect tomorrow night ... have to let Samson know, though ...