Fear is the Key (16 page)

I didn't smile. I said quietly: ‘How do they know
this? The tail hasn't turned up, has he?'

‘They had three tails on Jablonsky. He didn't
catch on to the other two.'

I nodded wearily. ‘And then?'

‘Jablonsky went to the post office. I saw him
going in myself when we – Daddy and I – were on
our way to tell the police the story Daddy insisted I
tell, about how you'd dumped me and I'd thumbed
a lift home. Well, it seems Jablonsky picked up a
pad of telegraph forms, went into the booth, wrote
out and sent off a message. One of Vyland's men
waited till he'd left then got the pad and took off
the top message sheet – the one under the sheet
Jablonsky had written on – and brought it back
here. From what I could hear Vyland seemed to be
working on this with some powder and lamps.'

So even Jablonsky could slip up. But in his
place I would have done the same. Exactly the
same. I would have assumed that if I'd disposed
of a shadower that would be the lot. Vyland was
clever, maybe he was going to be too clever for
me. I said to the girl: ‘Hear anything more?'

‘A little, not much. I gather they made out
most of what was written on the form, but they
couldn't understand it, I think it must have been
in code.' She broke off, wet her lips then went on
gravely: ‘But the address was in plain language, of
course.'

‘Of course.' I crossed the room and stared down
at her. I knew the answer to my next question, but
I had to ask her. ‘And the address?'

‘A Mr J. C. Curtin, Federal Bureau of Investigation.
That – that was really why I came. I knew I
had to warn Mr Jablonsky. I didn't hear any more,
somebody came along the passage and I slipped out
a side door, but I think he's in danger. I think he's
in great danger, Mr Talbot.'

For the past fifteen minutes I'd been looking
for a way to break the news to her, but now I
gave up.

‘You're too late.' I hadn't meant my voice to
sound harsh and cold but that's the way it sounded.
‘Jablonsky's dead. Murdered.'

They came for me at eight o'clock next morning,
Royale and Valentino.

I was fully dressed except for my coat and I
was fastened to the bed-head by a single set of
handcuffs – I'd thrown the key away together with
Jablonsky's three duplicate keys after I'd locked all
the doors.

There was no reason why they should search
me and I hoped as I never hoped before that
they wouldn't. After Mary had left, tear-stained,
forlorn and having unwillingly promised me that
no word of what had passed should be repeated
to anyone, not even her father, I'd sat down and
thought. All my thinking so far had been in a
never-ending circle and I'd got so deep in the
rut that I could hardly see daylight any more and
just when my mental processes had been about to
vanish completely into the darkness I'd had the
first illuminating flash, in the dark gloom of my
thinking a blindingly bright flash of intuition or
common sense, that I'd had since I'd come to that
house. I'd thought about it for another half-hour,
then I'd got a sheet of thin paper and written a
long message on one side, folded it twice until it
was only a couple of inches wide, sealed it with
tape and addressed it to Judge Mollison at his home
address. Then I'd folded it in half lengthwise, slid it
over the neck-band of my tie and turned my collar
down over it until it was completely hidden. When
they came for me I'd had less than an hour in bed
and I hadn't slept at all.

But I pretended to be sound asleep when they
came in. Somebody shook me roughly by the
shoulder. I ignored it. He shook me again. I stirred.
He gave up the shaking as unprofitable and used
the back of his hand across my face, not lightly.
Enough was enough. I groaned, blinked my eyes
painfully and propped myself up in bed, rubbing
my forehead with my free hand.

‘On your feet, Talbot.' Apart from the upper left-
hand side of his face, a miniature sunset viewed
through an indigo haze, Royale looked calm and
smooth as ever, and fully rested: another dead man
on his conscience wasn't going to rob him of much
sleep. Valentino's arm, I was glad to see, was still in
a sling: that was going to make my task of turning
him into an ex-bodyguard all the easier.

‘On your feet,' Royale repeated. ‘How come only
one handcuff?'

‘Eh?' I shook my head from side to side and
made a great play of being dazed and half-doped.
‘What in hell's name did I have for dinner last
night?'

‘Dinner?' Royale smiled his pale quiet smile.
‘You and your gaoler emptied that bottle between
you. That's what you had for dinner.'

I nodded slowly. He was on safe ground as far
as he knew his ground; if I'd been doped I'd have
only the haziest recollection of what had happened
immediately before I'd passed out. I scowled at him
and nodded at the handcuffs: ‘Unlock this damn
thing, will you?'

‘Why only one cuff?' Royale repeated gently.

‘What does it matter if it's one cuff or twenty,'
I said irritably. ‘I can't remember. I seem to think
Jablonsky shoved me in here in a great hurry and
could only find one. I think perhaps he didn't
feel too good either.' I buried my face in my
hands and drew them down hard as if to clear
my head and eyes. Between my fingers I glimpsed
Royale's slow nod of understanding and I knew I
had it made: it was exactly what Jablonsky would
have done; he'd have felt something coming over
him and rushed in to secure me before he collapsed.

The cuff was unlocked and on the way through
Jablonsky's room I glanced casually at the table.
The whisky bottle was still there. Empty. Royale
– or Vyland – didn't miss much.

We went out into the passage with Royale leading
and Valentino bringing up the rear. I shortened
my step abruptly and Valentino dug his gun into
the small of my back. Nothing Valentino would
do would ever be gently, but, for him, it was a
comparatively gentle prod and my sharp exclamation
of pain might have been justified if it
had been about ten times as hard. I stopped in
my tracks, Valentino bumped into me and Royale
swung round. He'd done his conjuring act again
and his deadly little toy gun was sitting snugly in
the palm of his hand.

‘What gives?' he asked coldly. No inflection, not
the slightest raising of the pitch of voice. I hoped
I lived to see the day when Royale was good and
worried.

‘This gives,' I said tightly. ‘Keep your trained ape
out of my hair, Royale, or I'll take him apart. Gun
or no guns.'

‘Lay off him, Gunther,' Royale said quietly.

‘Jeez, boss, I didn't hardly touch him.' Discounting
the anthropoid brow, broken nose, pock-marks and
scars, there wasn't much room left on Valentino's
face for the shift and play of expression, but what
little area remained appeared to indicate astonishment
and a sharp sense of injustice. ‘I just gave him
a little tap –'

‘Sure, I know.' Royale had already turned and
was on his way. ‘Just lay off him.'

Royale reached the head of the stairs first and
was half a dozen steps down by the time I got
there. Again I slowed abruptly, again Valentino
bumped into me. I swung round, chopped the side
of my hand against his gun-wrist and knocked the
automatic to the ground. Valentino dived to pick
it up with his left hand then roared in anguish
as the heel of my right shoe stamped down and
crushed his fingers between leather and metal.
I didn't hear any bones break, but nothing so
drastic was necessary – with both his hands out
of commission Mary Ruthven was going to need
a new bodyguard.

I made no attempt to stoop and pick up the gun.
I made no attempt to move. I could hear Royale
coming slowly up the stairs.

‘Move well back from that gun,' he ordered.
‘Both of you.'

We moved. Royale picked up the gun, stood to
one side and waved me down the stairs in front
of him. I couldn't tell what he was thinking; for
all the expression on his face he might just as
well have been watching a leaf falling. He said
nothing more, he didn't even bother to glance at
Valentino's hand.

They were waiting for us in the library, the
general, Vyland and Larry the junky. The general's
expression, as usual, was hidden behind moustache
and beard but there was a tinge of blood
to his eyes and he seemed greyer than thirty-six
hours ago: maybe it was just my imagination,
everything looked bad to me that morning. Vyland
was urbane and polished and smiling and tough
as ever, freshly shaven, eyes clear, dressed in a
beautifully cut charcoal-grey suit, white soft shirt
and red tie. He was a dream. Larry was just Larry,
white-faced, with the junky's staring eyes, pacing
up and down behind the desk. But he didn't look
quite so jerky as usual; he too, was smiling, so I
concluded that he'd had a good breakfast, chiefly
of heroin.

‘Morning, Talbot.' It was Vyland speaking; the
big-time crooks today find it just as easy to be civil
to you as to snarl and beat you over the head and
it pays off better. ‘What was the noise, Royale?'

‘Gunther.' Royale nodded indifferently at Valentino,
who had just come in, left hand tucked tightly
under his disabled right arm and moaning in pain.
‘He rode Talbot too hard and Talbot didn't like it.'

‘Go off and make a noise somewhere else,'
Vyland said coldly. The Good Samaritan touch.
‘Feeling tough and tetchy this morning, hey, Talbot?'
There was no longer even an attempt at keeping up
the pretence that the general was the boss, or even
had an equal say in what went on in his own house:
he just stood quietly in the background, remote
and dignified and in some way tragic. But maybe
the tragedy was only in my own mind; I could
be guessing wrongly about the general. I could be
terribly wrong about him. Fatally wrong.

‘Where's Jablonsky?' I demanded.

‘Jablonsky?' Vyland raised a lazy eyebrow: George
Raft couldn't have done it any better. ‘What's
Jablonsky to you, Talbot?'

‘My gaoler,' I said briefly. ‘Where is he?'

‘You appear very anxious to know, Talbot?' He
looked at me long and consideringly and I didn't
like it at all. ‘I've seen you before, Talbot. So has
the general. I wish I could remember who it is you
remind me of.'

‘Donald Duck.' This was perilous ground indeed.
‘Where is he?'

‘He's left. Lammed out. With his seventy thousand
bucks.'

‘Lammed out' was a slip, but I let it pass. ‘Where
is he?'

‘You are becoming boringly repetitious, my friend.'
He snapped his fingers. ‘Larry, the cables.'

Larry picked up some papers from the desk,
handed them to Vyland, grinned at me wolfishly
and resumed his pacing.

‘The general and I are very careful people,
Talbot,' Vyland went on. ‘Some people might
say highly suspicious. Same thing. We checked
up on you. We checked in England, Holland and
Venezuela.' He waved the papers. ‘These came in
this morning. They say you're all you claim to
be, one of Europe's top salvage experts. So now
we can go ahead and use you. So now we don't
need Jablonsky any more. So we let him go this
morning. With his cheque. He said he fancied a
trip to Europe.'

Vyland was quiet, convincing, utterly sincere
and could have talked his way past St Peter. I
looked as I thought St Peter might have looked
as he was in the process of being convinced, then
I said a lot of things St Peter would never have
said and finished up by snarling: ‘The dirty lying
double-crosser!'

‘Jablonsky?' Again the George Raft touch with
the eyebrows.

‘Yes, Jablonsky. To think that I listened to that
lying two-timer. To think I even spent five seconds
listening to him. He promised me –'

‘Well, what did he promise you?' Vyland asked
softly.

‘No harm now,' I scowled. ‘He reckoned I was
for the high jump here – and he reckoned that the
charges that had had him dismissed from the New
York police had been rigged. He thinks – or said
he thought – he could prove it, if he was given
the chance to investigate certain policemen and
certain police files.' I swore again. ‘And to think
that I believed –'

‘You're wandering, Talbot,' Vyland interrupted
sharply. He was watching me very closely indeed.
‘Get on.'

‘He thought he could buy this chance – and
at the same time have me help him while he
helped me. He spent a couple of hours in our
room trying to remember an old federal code and
then he wrote a telegram to some agency offering
to supply some very interesting information about
General Ruthven in exchange for a chance to
examine certain files. And I was mug enough to
think he meant it!'

‘You don't by any chance happen to remember
the name of the man to whom this telegram was
addressed?'

‘No. I forget.'

‘You better remember, Talbot. You may be buying
yourself something very important to you –
your life.'

I looked at him without expression, then stared
at the floor. Finally I said without looking up:
‘Catin, Cartin, Curtin – yes, that was it. Curtin.
J. C. Curtin.'

‘And all he offered was to give information if his
own conditions were met. Is that it?'

‘That's it.'

‘Talbot, you've just bought yourself your life.'

Sure, I'd bought myself my life. I noticed Vyland
didn't specify how long I would be allowed to hang
on to my purchase. Twenty-four hours, if that.
It all depended how the job went. But I didn't
care. The satisfaction it had given me to stamp on
Valentino's hand upstairs was nothing compared
to the glow I felt now. They'd fallen for my story,
they'd fallen for it hook, line and sinker. In the
circumstances, with the cards dealt the right way, it
had been inevitable that they should. And I'd dealt
my cards just right. Judged from the standpoint
of their limited awareness of the extent of my
knowledge, it would have been impossible for me
to have concocted such a story. They didn't and
couldn't know that I knew Jablonsky to be dead,
that they had him tailed yesterday and deciphered
the telegram's address: for they didn't know that I
had been in the kitchen garden during the previous
night, that Mary had overheard their conversation
in the library and that she had been to see me.
Had they thought I had been an accomplice of
Jablonsky's throughout, they'd have shot me out
of hand. As it was, they wouldn't shoot me for
some time yet. Not a long time. But perhaps long
enough.