1950 - Mallory (19 page)

H
ermit Island was much bigger than Corridon had imagined. He had pictured it to be a rocky platform, perhaps two hundred yards square on which a house had been erected, but when the motorboat entered a small well-concealed harbour, and looking up, he saw mighty walls of rock towering above him away into the darkness he had something of a shock. From the formation of the sharp jagged rocks he began to understand what Ann had meant when she said the island could be dangerous to those who did not know every step of it.

A heavy sea mist shrouded the island, and the wind howled dismally in the crevasses of the rock wall, and at the approach of the boat a great flock of sea-gulls rose out of the darkness, their mournful cries rising above the roar of the breakers.

By the boat-house, a replica of the shed on the mainland, was a flight of steps cut into the rock, and up these the three climbed, buffeted by the wind that seemed to clutch at them, threatening to sweep them into the sea. Corridon counted two hundred steps before they reached the broad rocky platform from which he could just make out the outline of a mighty peak in the distance, sharp-edged and black against the night sky.

He followed Ann, his head bent against the wind, along a narrow path that sloped gently into the darkness. Jeanne brought up the rear, and he could hear her muttering from time to time as she stumbled over the uneven path.

They came upon the house suddenly and unexpectedly. It was built into the face of the rock wall, sheltered on two sides by massive rock formations, but directly exposed to the bitter winds that swept off the North Sea. It was a squat, two-storey building, anchored by steel rods to the solid rock. The roof, floors and walls were of concrete; the walls a foot thick. The house looked as ugly and as strong as an old Scottish fortress.

Near the house Corridon could make out another flight of steps cut into the rock that led upwards, and he learned later that at the top of the steps was a plateau, the highest point of the island with the exception of the Hermit, the distant peak he had seen from the lower level, from which the island derived its name.

The house was in darkness. Its windows, like black mirrors, reflected the slow-moving clouds. As Ann moved towards the front door, Corridon caught her arm and pulled her back.

‘Not so fast,’ he cautioned, looking up at the house. ‘Don’t let’s rush things. If someone’s there—’

‘There isn’t anyone,’ she said impatiently. ‘You don’t believe her lies, do you?’

‘All the same there’s no point in taking chances.’

‘I have nothing to be afraid of,’ she returned, pulling free, and before he could stop her she had run up to the front door.

‘Have you a light?’ she went on, looking over her shoulder. ‘We always seal the door when we leave. If the seal’s intact, then no one’s inside.’

He joined her, and threw the beam of his flashlight on to the blob of sealing-wax that would have broken had the door been opened. He saw at a glance that the sealing-wax had been attached to the door for some time.

‘Is there any other entrance?’ he asked, as Jeanne came cautiously forward and joined them.

‘No,’ Ann said. ‘This is the only way in. As you can see there are shutters up on the lower windows and they’re bolted from inside.’

She took a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. The three of them walked into a big, comfortable lounge.

As Ann turned on the lights, Corridon pushed past her.

‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I’m going to look over the house.’

‘You won’t find anyone here,’ Ann said shortly.

‘I’m taking no chances,’ he said.

He went from room to room and satisfied himself that no one was hiding in the house, and that it was impossible for anyone to break in. When he returned to the lounge he found Ann standing by the big electric fire and Jeanne, ill at ease and restless, prowling about the room.

It was now after eleven o’clock and he decided against exploring the island in the dark. Jeanne reluctantly agreed. The size of the island, its precipitous cliffs, and the fury of the wind seemed to have awed her, and she kept away from the other two, fingering the Mauser, a sullen, brooding expression in her eyes.

When Ann offered to take her to a bedroom, she said curtly she would remain in the lounge by the fire.

‘Let her alone,’ Corridon said in an undertone. ‘Let’s go upstairs and get away from her.’

There were four bedrooms leading on to a gallery that overlooked the lounge. Corridon followed Ann into one of the bedrooms and closed the door.

‘You don’t believe Brian’s here, do you?’ she asked anxiously as he sat a little wearily on the bed. ‘You don’t believe her lies?’

He looked up at her.

‘I’m sure she’s insane,’ he said quietly. ‘Her story about Jan doesn’t hang together. I’m beginning to think that Mallory is such an obsession with her she’s imagining half what she thinks is happening.’ He rubbed his jaw, frowning. ‘It might be she’s imagined everything that’s happened if only I could think of a reason why Harris and Lubish and Rita Allen were murdered. The trouble is, although she’s cracked, she’s not the only one who is certain your brother’s alive. Ranleigh and Jan thought so too.’

‘You don’t think Brian killed Jan? You don’t believe that nonsense?’ she asked.

‘No. You remember she said there was nothing she could do when she saw Jan and Mallory struggling together. But she had the Mauser. She must have. Jan hadn’t got it. He fell off the moving train, and if he had it, there would be no way for her to have got hold of it. She’s a dead shot. She could have shot Mallory as he was killing Jan. No, the story doesn’t hang together. We know Jan was badly wounded. He might have died from his wounds, and she’s either imagined it was Mallory who killed him or is lying deliberately.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘But why? There’s something wrong somewhere. We’re missing something. I’m going to think about it. There’s something behind all this; some little thing that’ll make sense if I can only hit on it.’ He got up and went over to her. ‘Go to bed, Ann. Let me think about it, and don’t worry.’

‘It’s such a relief to me you don’t believe her story,’ Ann said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘If only you’d believe Brian didn’t have anything to do with any of this—’

‘She says he is on the island,’ Corridon said. ‘All right, if he is I’ll find him. I have a feeling tomorrow will see the end of it.’

‘You won’t find him,’ Ann said. ‘I know you won’t.’

‘Go to bed.’ His voice was curt. ‘Lock yourself in. I don’t trust her. I wish I could get hold of the gun. Go on, Ann. We can’t do anything tonight. We must wait until daylight.’

When she had gone he began to pace up and down.

Rain beat against the window, and he could hear the wind and the sound of the waves thudding on the rocks below. There was nothing he could do now until the morning, but he was reluctant to undress and get into bed. He felt uneasy, and the continuous muffled sound of the waves worried him.

Impatiently he took off his coat and sat in an armchair. It seemed a long time since he had slept. He had dozed in the train, but nothing more, and his eyes were heavy; yet he knew he wouldn’t sleep if he did go to bed.

He relaxed in the chair, closing his eyes, and began to think about Mallory.

Mallory: a voice in the darkness; a picture conjured up from the description of others. A good man; a bad man. A mythical figure who murdered ruthlessly. A man whom Ranleigh had admired, whom Ann loved; whom Jeanne and Jan hated with vicious intensity; a traitor; a man who was loyal to his friends. A will-o’-the-wisp; here on the island or dead, buried in some unknown grave in France.

Corridon thumped the arm of his chair in exasperation. He was missing something. He was sure of it now. The whole thing had started because Mallory had betrayed Gourville. If Mallory had kept his mouth shut none of this would have happened. Harris, Lubish and Rita Allen would have been alive.

These three wouldn’t have come to him for his help. If Mallory had kept his mouth shut. Why had Mallory betrayed Gourville? Even Ranleigh couldn’t understand that. Was this the key to the whole thing? Was this what he was looking for?

He sat up suddenly as the room was plunged into darkness.

Either the electricity had failed or someone had turned off the main switch. He got quietly to his feet, groped his way cautiously across the room to the door and looked into darkness. All the lights in the house had gone out, and the only sound he could hear was the sullen roar of the breakers.

And as he stood listening, his heart thumping violently, he heard out of the darkness somewhere below him a voice that stiffened the hair on the nape of his neck. A hoarse penetrating whisper that seemed to have no body nor direction. The same voice he had heard in Crew’s flat: Mallory’s voice, ‘Are you there, Jeanne?’

And Corridon’s nerves recoiled a split second before the flash of flame and the sharp explosion of gunfire. A cry followed the crack of the gun: Jeanne’s voice, then the sound of a bolt being pulled back, and a moment later a great blast of wind rushed through the house.

Ann came blundering out into the darkness and cannoned into Corridon.

‘What is it? What’s happening?’ she cried, her voice tight with fear.

He pushed her aside and stepped to the balustrade of the gallery and sent the powerful beam of his flashlight into the lounge below.

It was empty. The front door stood open.

‘Jeanne!’ he called sharply. ‘Where are you?’

There was no answer.

‘Where’s the main switch?’ he said, turning to Ann.

‘In the kitchen.’

‘Wait here,’ he said curtly and ran down the stairs. A moment later the lights went on again, and he came out of the kitchen to look around the lounge.

‘She’s gone,’ he said, looking up at Ann who stood at the head of the stairs.

‘But the shot? What happened?’ Ann said, and came down and joined him.

He went over to the front door, peered out into the rain-lashed darkness, then closed and bolted the door.

‘Look around, Ann, I want to find the bullet,’ he said and began to examine the walls and the furniture, his face alight with excitement.

It was Ann who found the bullet, embedded in the oak panelling. Corridon dug it out with his knife and turned the flattened slug thoughtfully between his fingers.

‘A Mauser bullet,’ he said, and stood staring at Ann, and then he gave a little grin. ‘I told you I was missing something. The voice f
ooled me. I think I’ve got it!’

F
rom the plateau above the house Corridon had a bird’s-eye view of the whole of the island. At the far end the Hermit rose stark and black against the morning sky. From where he stood he could see that parts of the island consisted of flat stretches of moorland, but the bulk of it was rock, ending in sheer precipices to the sea. On the east side was a broad stretch of sand, while to the west the beach was strewn with jagged rocks at the foot of the black sea-cliffs.

After examining the ground for some minutes, Corridon decided to ignore the stretches of moorland. It offered no cover, and anyone crossing it would be instantly seen. The west side of the island with its massive rocks and boulders seemed to be the most likely place for anyone to hide, and he decided to begin his search from there.

He made his way down into the glen at the foot of the plateau. The ground offered excellent cover but his progress was slow as most of the time he walked in a stooping position to keep below the level of the thick gorse bushes that covered the glen. He was taking no chances.

Beyond the glen the ground began to rise, and after a while he came upon two paths, one leading to the beach and the other to high ground and eventually to the top of the precipitous cliffs a mile or so to the west. The path to the beach was bare of cover, and he decided to take the upper path. From the cliff head he would again have a bird’s-eye view of the island, and would, he hoped, be able to examine the beach from the heights without the need to go down there.

He kept moving, aware of the utter loneliness of the island. His only companions were the gulls who flew above him in circles, uttering their harsh cries.

By the time he reached the head of the cliffs, it was almost noon, and the heat of the sun struck down on him. He had been walking for three hours, and had seen no other sign of life except the gulls.

Lying flat so as not to be seen against the skyline, he began to crawl to the edge of the cliff. His advance was cautious as he remembered Ann’s warning that the ground was treacherous.

He reached the edge and looked down at the massive rocks below. A little to his right was a stretch of sand, drying in the sun, and half concealed by a barrier of rocks. Something on the face of the sand attracted his attention. He edged farther forward and craned his neck and looked down at a single line of footprints clearly imprinted in the sand. Even from that height and they were two hundred feet below him, the footprints were unmistakable. They were big and widely spaced and going away to the north, the opposite direction to the house which now seemed to Corridon to be miles in his rear.

The sight of the footprints gave him a shock. They were the last thing he expected to see. Mallory! And as if in answer to the question that flashed through his mind he saw something move away in the distance. He turned quickly and searched the sweeping dale of gorse and scrub, but saw nothing. Then as he was wondering if his imagination had played him a trick the silhouette of a broad-shouldered, tall man appeared against the skyline. The figure vanished as quickly as it appeared, but it was enough.

Without hesitation Corridon scrambled on hands and knees down the slope that led from the cliff top, and as soon as he was below the horizon he stood up and began to run.

The ground was rough and uneven, and by the time he reached the dale, he was panting and sweat ran down his face.

Beyond the dale was a stretch of barren ground, dotted with big boulders, and that led to the base of the Hermit.

He was now within half a mile of the towering peak, and looking up, he saw an eagle fly out suddenly from its hidden nest and sail away to the north. Watching it, he saw it climb steeply with a few hurried strokes of its wings and sheer away off its course, uttering its shrill squeal as if alarmed. He guessed the man he had seen must be close by, and he advanced cautiously, using every scrap of cover, careful not to dislodge any loose stones or give warning of his approach.

It took him nearly half an hour to reach the high ridge close to the Hermit’s base, and bending low, he climbed the ridge and looked down on to a vast stretch of moorland that sloped steeply down to the cliffs. What he saw there brought him upright. The puzzled, cautious look went from his eyes and his strained, uncertain expression gave way to a broad grin.

Sitting on a rock, not more than ten yards away, was a big bulky man who was rubbing his ankle, a rueful expression on his red, sun-scorched face.

The man looked up sharply, and seeing Corridon, his face lit up with a beaming smile.

‘Hello, old chap,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Damned rough going, isn’t it? I was hoping to run into you before long. I’ve had just about enough of walking over this perishing island.’

It
was Detective-Sergeant Rawlins.