Silhouette in Scarlet vbm-3 Page 17

  ‘They will cure him! He will resume his career, he will succeed. And I will make sure no other devils like this one corrupt him.’

  He turned to John, who returned his glare with bland indifference. ‘I wouldn’t bank on it, Leif,’ he said. ‘Once a junkie, always a junkie.’

  ‘I ignore your cheap taunts,’ Leif said. ‘You know the saying: He who laughs last . . .’

  ‘Tactless,’ John said. ‘Uncouth and tactless, Leif. An honest, law-abiding chap like you shouldn’t revel in murder, even mine.’

  The diggers took the hole down almost six feet before they gave up. They weren’t disheartened, however; as Max himself admitted, the treasure trove might have been scattered to some degree. They started another excavation beside the first.

  According to my watch, it was after one o’clock. In another nine or ten hours the light would be as dim as it was going to get. I gave the quiescent clouds a critical stare. A good wet, dark, noisy thunderstorm would be a big help.

  The discovery of the brooch had whetted appetites that had become jaded, and prolonged the search. Yet I held to my original belief that Max would leave the island that night. There would be no darkness to veil his departure, but the chance of being observed would be lessened if he waited till the townspeople were asleep. He would have to halt the excavation by late afternoon in order to complete his preparations for departure – packing, repairing the boat, killing John – and by that time he would be extremely exasperated, for he would find nothing. There was no treasure trove, at least not in the spot where he was digging – only John’s fake brooch.

  All of which meant that I didn’t dare wait until suppertime to use the contents of the bottle with which John had thoughtfully provided me. His assumption that I would know what it was, and what to do with it, was flattering, but I wished he had taken the time to drop a few hints. I had sneaked a peek at it after breakfast; it was a crystalline white powder with no perceptible odour or other distinguishing characteristics. I didn’t taste it. For all I knew, it might be cyanide or some other deadly poison, the slightest nibble of which would send me rolling around the room with my heels touching my head.

  I was not keen on the idea of becoming a mass poisoner. However, I thought it unlikely that John would carry a lethal substance around with him. He wasn’t the type to swallow cyanide to avoid torture; he’d go on squirming and scheming until the last breath. More likely the powder had come from Georg’s pack – coke, heroin, morphine, God knows what. How John had covered up the theft I could not imagine; presumably he had managed to make it look like an accident, or carelessness on Georg’s part. Wherever it had originated, it was obviously not meant for my own use, so I had to assume he wanted me to bestow it on the thugs.

  Shortly thereafter I was relieved to find my deductions confirmed. John began twitching and clutching his stomach. ‘I’m in agony,’ he moaned. ‘It’s probably a ruptured spleen.’

  ‘Probably hunger pangs,’ I said, and was rewarded by a quick glance of approval. I went on, ‘Maybe Max will let you go back to the house and make yourself a sandwich. You can make one for me while you’re at it.’

  ‘You’d ask a dying man – a man suffering from extreme inanition – to make you a sandwich?’

  ‘Your playacting is becoming banal, Smythe,’ Max said. ‘You read too many sensational novels. It is only in fiction that warders are tricked into carelessness by a pretence of illness.’

  However, the mention of food had its effect on the diggers. They had been hard at it for several hours, and it was exercise of a type to which they were not accustomed. The wind had dropped to a breathless hush that was more threatening than a gale. Rudi finally summoned up enough nerve to ask Max if they could take a break. ‘We cannot work all day without food, Max,’ he added sullenly.

  ‘Don’t expect me to do the cooking,’ John said, between groans.

  ‘Dr Bliss and I will be the chefs,’ Max said. ‘Rudi, take that section down another foot, then stop. Bring Smythe back with you – and watch him.’

  Max spoke only once during the walk. ‘I am tempted to lock you in your room this afternoon, Dr Bliss.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘I cannot trust you,’ Max explained, in an accusing voice. ‘You might try to escape.’

  Any comment on this seemed superfluous. We proceeded in silence.

  Though the deep freeze and the pantry shelves were bulging, supplies of perishables like milk and eggs were getting low. The island must have a regular delivery service from the mainland for items of that sort – another reason why time was running out for Max. He couldn’t kidnap the milkman and the baker when they made their rounds; someone would wonder what had happened to them. Any visit from an outsider carried the risk of discovery.

  I poured the rest of the milk into a pitcher and put it on the table. Max pulled out a chair and sat down. He had no intention of helping me – he just wanted to keep an eye on me. ‘Sandwiches,’ he said. ‘Cheese, ham – nothing complicated.’

  ‘We’re almost out of bread.’

  ‘There is more in the freezer.’

  ‘It’s frozen solid.’

  ‘Then unfreeze it.’

  I put a couple of loaves in the oven and switched it on. As I moved back and forth between pantry and sink, refrigerator and stove, I had ample opportunity to dispose of the white powder. It would take only a second or two to dump it into – into what? Not the milk; the pitcher was at Max’s elbow. Besides, he and Hans were the only members of the gang who drank milk.

  ‘What about some soup?’ I suggested. ‘There’s tomato, chicken noodle – ’

  ‘No soup.’

  I don’t think he was really worried about my slipping something into the soup; his objection was pure reflex, instinctive professional caution. Sugar? I thought. No good. Some of them took their coffee black. I plugged in the gleaming chrome-and-porce-lain device Mrs Andersson used for making coffee, and tested the bread. It was pre-sliced; I was able to separate the slices and spread them on the counter to finish thawing. As I did so, I heard voices outside. The diggers were back. I had to make up my mind in a hurry. With all of them milling around the kitchen, my chances of being detected rose a hundredfold.

  So I put it in the butter. It was soft, since Max had not let me clear away after breakfast. It also showed signs of having been licked. ‘Wonderful for hair balls,’ I said aloud, mixing furiously.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ If I hadn’t been so rattled, I wouldn’t have spoken; for all his fondess of animals, Max might be one of those fastidious souls who would refuse to eat food a cat had tasted. The cat had clearly been on the table; there wasn’t a scrap of bacon left, and several plates were suspiciously clean.

  I started putting the sandwiches together. No self-respecting Swede would have touched them; they were slapped into shape with such speed that the contents leaked over the sides. I took care not to let the butter ooze, though. It was strangely lumpy-looking.

  Grimy, sweaty, and dishevelled, the diggers filed in and took their places. Hans grabbed a sandwich, and my heart stopped with a grinding thud as he pried back the top piece of bread and peered at what was inside.

  ‘Gibt es keinen Senf?’ he inquired.

  I didn’t trust myself to speak. I got the mustard out of the refrigerator and handed it to him.

  It was not one of my more elegant table settings. I hadn’t bothered to put plates down, just a few glasses and a dozen bottles of beer. Hans reached for the pitcher of milk. John got it first, and pulled it towards him. Rudi asked for a bottle opener. Turning to get it, I heard a crash, a splash, and a cry of outrage from Max. John had dropped the pitcher. The milk was soaking into Max’s hand-stitched suede shoes.

  ‘Weak wrist,’ John whined, nursing it.

  So everybody drank beer. I made sandwiches like an assembly line. I had to do something; every time one of them took a bite I expected a complaint or a puzzled look.

&nb
sp; They had almost finished eating when Leif entered. ‘Have a sandwich,’ I said compulsively.

  ‘No, thank you. My brother is ill. We must have a doctor.’

  Several of the men exchanged cynical grins, but Max looked up sharply. ‘Ill? What do you mean?’

  ‘I insist you look at him,’ Leif said. ‘At once.’

  His peremptory tone made Max frown, and he added, in a more conciliatory voice, ‘It may be food poisoning; I cannot tell. Would it not be advisable for you to investigate?’

  They went out of the room. The men went right on eating. The suggestion of food poisoning didn’t bother them; they had diagnosed Georg’s illness sight unseen, and – I thought – correctly. John sat slumped in his chair. He had not touched the sandwiches. I nudged him and offered another plateful.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘you prefer plain ham.’

  He took one. Our eyes met for an instant, then he looked away.

  Max and Leif came back. I looked up interestedly, but no explanations were forthcoming. Max only said, ‘Back to work.’

  There was some subdued grumbling, especially from Hans; five sandwiches and four bottles of beer had not filled his huge stomach. John had to be dragged to his feet. He kept complaining that he was sick, but as he stumbled out, roughly assisted by Hans, Leif said with a contemptuous smile, ‘His nerve has failed. It was to be expected. He has not even the courage of a cornered rat; he can only cringe and whimper.’

  I made a protesting sound. Leif’s gloating smile faded. ‘I am sorry, Vicky. But if you could see Georg as he is now, you would understand why I cannot pity the man who corrupted him.’

  ‘It’s not food poisoning, then?’

  ‘No, I only said that to force Max to look at him. It is – what you think. He has run out of the drug. During the night he neglected to close the box, and it was spilled.’

  ‘A little cold turkey,’ I said meditatively. ‘Who knows, it may be the making of him.’

  ‘Now you sound like that swine, Smythe. I hate to hear you so cynical, Vicky.’

  Max reappeared at the door. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘I will stay with my brother,’ Leif said, in a voice that dared Max to object. ‘Let her stay too. She is distressed – ’

  ‘No, I’ll go. I’d rather.’ I edged away from him.

  ‘You cannot guard him forever,’ Max said.

  The knife was on the counter, an inch from my hand. My fingers itched, but I was afraid to take the chance. I said, ‘I’m coming, Max. Let’s go.’

  The next hour was the worst of the entire affair. My stomach was churning. I didn’t know how long it would take for the powder to work, or what the effects would be – if any. Maybe I had spread it too thin. John sat on the ground, his head bent and his hands limp. I paced, biting my nails. The clouds darkened. The wind rose. The only effect lacking was a werewolf howling in the trees.

  I expected Hans to show the first symptoms, since he had eaten and drunk more than the others, but perhaps his mammoth body could absorb more. I saw nothing out of the way until Rudi let out a howl of pain. He had jabbed himself in the foot with his spade. Dropping the tool, he lifted the injured member with one hand and promptly toppled over.

  Max was on the spot instantly. ‘What is it?’

  Rudi rolled over, grimacing with pain. ‘I couldn’t help it, Max. I am no labourer. I am exhausted.’

  Max swept the rest of the crew with a suspicious eye. However, the next to go was not one of his men, it was John. With a startled cry he half rose and then pitched over onto his side.

  ‘Faking,’ said Max, nudging him with his toe.

  A genteel trickle of blood oozed out of John’s left nostril. I peeled back one of his eyelids. Now that the time had come, my hands were quite steady.

  ‘He’s not faking. Look – dilated pupils, bleeding from the nose – He’s got a concussion. He’ll die if he doesn’t get help.’

  ‘I will, of course, send one of my men for a doctor immediately,’ Max said, with awful sarcasm. ‘Do be sensible, my dear. It is a far easier death than the one he faced.’

  ‘At least let me do what I can,’ I begged. ‘Lying on the cold ground like that . . .’ I peeled off my sweater and tucked it around John. ‘Give me your coat,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dr Bliss.’

  ‘Please – ’ I rose and approached the diggers. A couple of them looked a little dazed. ‘Please,’ I repeated. ‘He needs to be kept warm.’

  It was Hans, the big, good-natured oaf, who responded. ‘I am too warm,’ he mumbled. ‘You can have my sweater.’ He did look warm. Perspiration beaded his forehead.

  In the last split second I made a final check of the dispositions I had noted earlier. A man can’t dig and hold a gun at the same time. Three of them wore shoulder holsters, including Max. Rudi’s weapon – a cute little sawed-off shotgun – was on the wheelbarrow, atop the other tools. I waited until Hans had the sweater up over his head before I acted. My shrill, banshee scream stunned them for another essential second. It also told John that I was making my move.

  The only one whose hand made it to the butt of his gun was the swarthy Italian. I aimed at him. In case he suffered from delusions about the incompetence of the female, I said warningly, ‘I was brought up on a farm, boys. Don’t chance it.’

  There were no heroes in that crowd. Any such aspirations died when they realized mine wasn’t the only weapon pointing at them. Max was on the ground, out cold, and John had his gun.

  He wasted no time complimenting me. After he had relieved the men of their surplus armaments, he gestured at Max. ‘Pick him up.’

  The order was directed at Hans, but that unfortunate innocent was still hopelessly entangled in the folds of his sweater. His pale blue eyes peered over it with vague wonder.

  Rudi and Willy carried Max. They were all looking groggy. The combination of beer and dope hadn’t knocked them out, but it had slowed their reflexes just enough to make the crazy plan feasible. Urged by guns and exhortations, the procession made its way to the hut in the trees. It took John only a few seconds to open the padlock, with the heavy needles in my pocket sewing kit. He bundled the prisoners inside and snapped the lock. Then, for the first time, he addressed me.

  ‘Where is Gus?’

  ‘The barn. I thought you were supposed to look for him.’

  ‘I had too many other things to do last night. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t take my word for it.’

  He had a point. I said, ‘Hadn’t we better collect the rest of the artillery?’

  ‘Yes, right. We can’t carry that lot around; it’s too bulky. Over the cliff?’

  ‘Sounds good to me – ’ I broke off with a gulp. The figure looming up in front of me looked like an ambulatory tree trunk, featureless against the lighter grey of the open pasture beyond.

  ‘Vicky! Thank heaven, you are all right I heard you scream; I thought . . .’ Leif held out his arms. I stayed where I was.

  ‘Put your hands up, Hasseltine,’ John said, edging away.

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’ Leif’s voice was contemptuous. ‘I would not risk myself for you, but I am happy you have succeeded. Now I can take my brother to a doctor. Come, let us return to the house.’

  Not unnaturally, he kept an eye on John’s gun, turning as the latter continued to move sideways. The muzzle of the weapon stayed fixed on Leif’s chest, and he said impatiently, ‘Don’t be a fool, Smythe. Vicky, convince him that I – ’

  I hit him across the side of the head with the barrel of the shotgun. He had a skull like a granite boulder. The blow dropped him to his knees, but he didn’t flatten out until John had pounded him a few more times, with the methodical precision of a carpenter driving in spikes.

  ‘That’s enough,’ I said, wincing.

  John handed me the gun.

  ‘Keep him covered,’ he said.

  Kneeling, he yanked off his belt and strapped Leif’s ankles. I contributed my belt, which he used on Leif’s w
rists. He wasn’t satisfied. ‘What we need is a drum of wire,’ he grumbled. ‘Go get that heavy twine Georg was using, and be quick about it.’

  By the time he finished, Leif had begun to stir and mutter.

  ‘Shall we put him in the shed?’ I asked. ‘Can you think of any reason why we should open that door?’

  ‘Actually, I can think of several good reasons why we shouldn’t. Let’s go.’

  Chapter Ten

  IT DIDN’T TAKE long to dispose of the extraneous weapons, but John begrudged every second. He was moving with the eellike quickness he displayed when the bad guys were breathing down his neck. He didn’t have to spell it out for me. We had the upper hand, but only temporarily. The only way of immobilizing a crowd like that permanently is with a machine gun. Our inane coup had succeeded because we caught them off guard and hustled them into prison before they had time to realize how vulnerable we were. The shack wouldn’t hold them forever; and the odds were almost four to one against us – higher, considering that they were trained killers, that Max might have a reserve supply of artillery in his luggage, and that Leif was an army in himself. I could picture him snapping his bonds like a comic-book hero bursting out of his shirt when he turns into Captain Muscle. There was no need for a consultation on our next move. We had to go, and stay not upon the order of our going. I had no idea how we were going to get off the island, but when push came to shove I’d have preferred to take my chances in the water rather than huddle in a cul-de-sac with Leif on my trail.

  For all his quickness, John was not at his best. When we started back across the pasture towards the house, his breathing was a little too fast.

  ‘We work so well together,’ he remarked. ‘It almost smacks of clairvoyance – the marriage of true minds.’

  ‘You needn’t be insulting.’

  That shut him up for a while. Then he said, ‘How did you know Leif was one of them?’

  ‘Anything you can figure out, I can figure out. Or did you know already?’