Fear is the Key (2 page)

‘What do you want me to do?' I asked. ‘Faint?'

‘Our police and immigration authorities happen,
for the moment at least, to be on very good terms
with their Cuban colleagues.' He might never have
heard my interjection. ‘Our cables to Havana have
produced much more than this passport: they have
produced much interesting information.'

‘Your name is not Chrysler, it's Ford. You have
spent two and a half years in the West Indies,
and are well known to the authorities in all of
the principal islands.'

‘Fame, Judge. When you've as many friends –'

‘Notoriety. Served three minor prison sentences in
two years.' Judge Mollison was skimming through
a paper he had in his hand. ‘No known means
of support except three months working as consultant
to a Havana salvage and diving firm.' He
looked up at me. ‘And in what – ah – capacity did
you serve this firm?'

‘I told 'em how deep the water was.'

He regarded me thoughtfully then returned to
his paper.

‘Associate of criminals and smugglers,' he went
on. ‘Chiefly of criminals known to be engaged in
the stealing and smuggling of precious stones and
metal. Known to have fomented, or attempted to
foment, labour troubles in Nassau and Manzanillo,
for ends suspected to be other than political.
Deported from San Juan, Haiti and Venezuela.
Declared
persona non
grata
in Jamaica and refused
landing permit in Nassau, Bahamas.' He broke off
and looked at me. ‘A British subject – and not even
welcome in British territories.'

‘Sheer prejudice, Judge.'

‘You have, of course, made an illegal entry into
the United States.' Judge Mollison was a difficult
man to knock off his stride. ‘How, I don't pretend
to know – it happens constantly in those parts.
Probably by Key West and a landing at night somewhere
between Port Charlotte and here. It doesn't
matter. And so now, in addition to assaulting
officers of the law and carrying a gun without
declaring it or possessing a licence for it, you can be
charged with illegal entry. A man with your record
could collect a stiff sentence for those, Ford.'

‘However, you won't. Not here, at least. I have
consulted with the state immigration authorities
and they agree with me that what best meets the
case is deportation: we wish no part of any person
like you. We understand from the Cuban authorities
that you broke custody while being held on
a charge of inciting violence among dockworkers
and on a further alleged charge of attempted
shooting of the policeman who arrested you. Such
offences carry heavy penalties in Cuba. The first
charge is not an extraditable offence and on the
second we have had no demand from the competent
authorities. However, as I say, we intend to
work not under extradition laws but deportation
laws – and we're deporting you to Havana. The
proper authorities will be there to meet your plane
when it lands tomorrow morning.'

I stood still and said nothing. The court-room
was very quiet. Presently I cleared my throat and
said, ‘Judge, I think that's downright unkind of
you.'

‘It depends on the point of view,' he said indifferently.
He rose to go, caught sight of the envelope
the youth had brought in and said: ‘No, wait a
moment,' and sat down again, slitting open the
envelope. He smiled bleakly at me as he extracted
the flimsy sheets of paper.

‘We thought we would ask Interpol to find
out what was known about you in your own
country, although I hardly think now there will
be any further useful information. We have all we
want … No, no, I thought not, nothing fresh here,
not known … no longer listed. Wait a minute
though!' The calm leisured voice rose to a sudden
shout that brought the somnolent reporter jack-in-the-box
bolt upright and sent him scurrying after
note-book and pen that had spilled over the floor.
‘Wait a minute!'

He turned back to the first page of the cable.

‘37b Rue Paul-Valéry, Paris,' he read rapidly.
‘Your request received, etc. etc. Regret inform you
no criminal listed in rotary card index under name
of John Chrysler. Could be any of four others
under alias, but unlikely: identification impossible
without cephalic index and fingerprints.

‘Remarkable resemblance from your description
to the late John Montague Talbot. Reasons for your
request and demand for urgency unknown but
enclosed please find summarized copy of salient
features of Talbot's life. Regret unable to help you
further, etc.

‘John Montague Talbot. Height 5 feet 11 inches,
weight 185 lb, deep red hair parted far over on left
side, deep blue eyes, heavy black brows, knife scar
above right eye, aquiline nose, exceptionally even
teeth. Carries left shoulder perceptibly higher than
right owing to fairly severe limp.'

The judge looked at me and I looked out the
door: I had to admit the description was not at
all bad.

‘Date of birth unknown, probably early 1920s.
Place of birth unknown. No record of war career.
Graduated Manchester University 1948 with B.Sc.
in engineering. Employed for three years by Siebe,
Gorman & Co.' He broke off, looked sharply at me.
‘Who are Siebe, Gorman & Co?'

‘Never heard of them.'

‘Of course not. But I have. Very well-known
European engineering firm specializing, among
other things, in all types of diving equipment.
Ties in rather neatly with your employment with
a salvage and diving firm in Havana, doesn't it?' He
obviously didn't expect an answer, for he carried
on reading at once.

‘Specialized in salvage and deep-water recovery.
Left Siebe Gorman, joined Dutch salvage firm from
which dismissed after eighteen months following
inquiries into whereabouts of two missing
28-lb ingots worth 60,000 dollars salvaged by
firm in Bombay Harbour from the wreck of the
ammunition and treasure ship
Fort
Strikene
which
blew up there 14th April, 1944. Returned England,
joined Portsmouth salvage and diving firm, associated
with “Corners” Moran, notorious jewellery
thief, during salvage work on the
Nantucket Light
which sank off the Lizard, June 1955, carrying
valuable cargo diamonds from Amsterdam to New
York. Salvaged jewels to the value of 80,000 dollars
were found to be missing. Talbot and Moran traced
to London, arrested, escaped from police wagon
when Talbot shot police officer with small concealed
automatic. Police officer subsequently died.'

I was leaning far forward now, my hands gripped
tightly on the edge of the box. Every eye was
on me but I had eyes only for the judge. There
wasn't a sound to be heard in that stuffy courtroom
except the drowsy murmur of flies high
up near the ceiling and the soft sighing of a big
overhead fan.

‘Talbot and Moran finally traced to riverside
rubber warehouse.' Judge Mollison was reading
slowly now, almost haltingly, as if he had to take
time to appreciate the significance of what he
was saying. ‘Surrounded, ignored order to surrender.
For two hours resisted all attempts by
police armed with guns and tear-gas bombs to
overcome them. Following explosion, entire warehouse
swept by uncontrollable fire of great intensity.
All exits guarded but no attempt at escape.
Both men perished in fire. Twenty-four hours later
firemen found no trace of Moran – believed to
have been almost completely incinerated. Talbot's
charred remains positively identified by ruby ring
worn on left hand, brass buckles of shoes and
German 4.25 automatic which he was known to
carry habitually …'

The judge's voice trailed off and he sat in silence
several moments. He looked at me, wonderingly,
as if unable to credit what he saw, blinked, then
slowly swivelled his gaze until he was looking at
the little man in the cane chair.

‘A 4.25 mm gun, Sheriff? Have you any idea –?'

‘I do.' The sheriff's face was cold and mean and
hard and his voice exactly matched his expression.
‘What we call a .21 automatic, and as far as I know
there's only one of that kind made – a German
“Lilliput.”'

‘Which was what the prisoner was carrying
when you arrested him.' It was a statement, not a
question. ‘
And
he's wearing a ruby ring on his left
hand.' The judge shook his head again, then looked
at me for a long, long moment: you could see the
disbelief was slowly giving way to inescapable
conviction. ‘The leopard – the criminal leopard
– never changes his spots. Wanted for murder –
perhaps two murders: who knows what you did
to your accomplice in that warehouse? It was his
body they found, not yours?'

The court was hushed and shocked and still: a
falling pin would have had the lot airborne.

‘A cop-killer.' The sheriff licked his lips, looked
up at Mollison and repeated the words in a whisper.
‘A cop-killer. He'll swing for that in England,
won't he, Judge?'

The judge was on balance again.

‘It's not within the jurisdiction of this court
to –'

‘Water!' The voice was mine, and even to my
own ears it sounded no more than a croak. I was
bent over the side of the box, swaying slightly,
propped up by one hand while I mopped my
face with a handkerchief held in the other. I'd
had plenty of time to figure it out and I think I
looked the way I think I ought to have looked. At
least, I hoped I did. ‘I – I think I'm going to pass
out. Is there – is there no water?'

‘Water?' The judge sounded half-impatient, half-
sympathetic. ‘I'm afraid there's no –'

‘Over there,' I gasped. I waved weakly to a spot
on the other side of the officer who was guarding
me. ‘Please!'

The policeman turned away – I'd have been
astonished if he hadn't – and as he turned I pivoted
on both toes and brought my left arm whipping
across just below waist level – three inches
higher and that studded and heavily brass-buckled
belt he wore around his middle would have left
me needing a new pair of knuckles. His explosive
grunt of agony was still echoing through the
shocked stillness of the court-room when I spun
him round as he started to fall, snatched the heavy
Colt from his holster and was waving it gently
around the room even before the policeman had
struck the side of the box and slid, coughing and
gasping painfully for air, to the wooden floor.

I took in the whole scene with one swift sweeping
glance. The man with the nose was staring
at me with an expression as near amazement as
his primitive features could register, his mouth
fallen open, the mangled stub of his cigar clinging
impossibly to the corner of his lower lip. The girl
with the dark-blonde hair was bent forward, wide-
eyed, her hand to her face, her thumb under her
chin and her fore-finger crooked across her mouth.
The judge was no longer a judge, he was a waxen
effigy of himself, as motionless in his chair as if he
had just come from the sculptor's hands. The clerk,
the reporter, the door attendant were as rigid as
the judge, while the group of school-girls and the
elderly spinster in charge were as goggle-eyed as
ever, but the curiosity had gone from their faces
and fear stepped in to take its place: the teenager
nearest to me had her eyebrows arched high up
into her forehead and her lips were trembling, she
looked as if she were going to start weeping or
screaming any moment. I hoped, vaguely, that it
wasn't going to be screaming, then an instant later
I realized that it didn't matter for there was likely
going to be a great deal of noise in the very near
future indeed. The sheriff hadn't been so unarmed
as I had supposed: he was reaching for his gun.

His draw was not quite the clean swift blurring
action to which the cinema of my youth
had accustomed me. The long flapping tails of
his alpaca coat impeded his hand and he was
further hindered by the arm of his cane chair.
Fully four seconds elapsed before he reached the
butt of his gun.

‘Don't do it, Sheriff!' I said quickly. ‘This cannon
in my hand is pointing right at you.'

But the little man's courage, or foolhardiness,
seemed to be in inverse proportion to his size. You
could tell by his eyes, by the lips ever so slightly
drawn back over the tightly clamped tobacco-
stained teeth, that there was going to be no stopping
him. Except in the only possible way. At the
full stretch of my arm I raised the revolver until
the barrel was level with my eyes – this business
of dead-eye Dan snap-shooting from the hip is
strictly for the birds – and as the sheriff's hand
came clear of the folds of his jacket I squeezed
the trigger. The reverberating boom of that heavy
Colt, magnified many times by the confining walls
of that small court-house, quite obliterated any
other sound. Whether the sheriff cried out or the
bullet struck his hand or the gun in his hand no
one could say: all we could be sure of was what
we saw, and that was the sheriff's right arm and
whole right side jerking convulsively and the gun
spinning backwards to land on a table inches from
the note-book of the startled reporter.

Already my Colt was lined up on the man at
the door.

‘Come and join us, friend,' I invited. ‘You look as
if you might be having ideas about fetching help.'
I waited till he was halfway down the aisle then
whirled round quickly as I heard a scuffling noise
behind me.

There had been no need for haste. The policeman
was on his feet, but that was all that could
be said for him. He was bent almost double, one
hand clutching his midriff, the knuckles of the
other all but brushing the floor: he was whooping
violently, gasping for the breath to ease the pain
in his body. Then he slowly straightened to a
crouched stooping position, and there was no fear
in his face, only hurt and anger and shame and a
do-or-die determination.