The Stone-Cold Dead in the Market Affair - Oram John - Страница 11
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Illya ran his hand down the wall. His fingers came away wet. He said, "If they keep us here long they won't need to send in the execution squad. We'll die of pneumonia."
"You say the nicest things," Blodwen told him. "I like a man who looks on the bright side." She rubbed the poodle's head. "I wish I had some food for this animal. The poor little soul must be starving."
Illya looked at his wristwatch. "It's half after one. I don't think they intend to bring us lunch, somehow."
"Ah, well. We mustn't expect too much. After all, like the man said, we're expendable."
He glanced at her, puzzled. "You seem to be taking things remarkably lightly."
She shrugged. "Not much point in doing anything else, is there? The next move is up to them." She took off her jacket, folded it as a cushion and settled herself as comfortably as could be expected in a corner of the cell. She said, " I wish that little horror in the blue jeans hadn't taken my handbag. I'm dying for a cigarette. You wouldn't have one, I suppose?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Never mind. It's a killing habit." She clasped the poodle tight and closed her eyes. Illya, looking down on her, thought she looked unbelievably young.
She slept for three hours. Then Illya shook her gently. She sat up, instantly alert. "What is it?"
"Somebody's coming."
She listened, heard the faint sounds of approaching footsteps. "Good!" she said. "It's time Dolly did her parlor trick. Let's hope it comes off."
She unbuckled the poodle's jeweled collar and tugged at it. The buckle came away from the strap, exposing a length of fine steel wire. She shook out her jacket and spread it over her knees, putting her hands holding the wire beneath it. As the key turned in the lock she slumped over, suddenly the picture of dejection.
The door opened and the teenager came in. He carried a tray with two tin mugs of tea and a plate of sandwiches. "You better make the most of it," he said. "It's all you'll get tonight." He looked at the girl huddled in the corner. "What's wrong with her?"
She gasped, "I'm ill."
"Too bad." He sneered. "I'm no bloody doctor."
She said painfully, "There must be someone."
"Not here, there ain't. You'll just have to suffer."
She looked up, pleading. "Well, can you give me a cigarette? Maybe that will ease the pain."
"Yes, I can manage that." He took a packet of Players from his jacket pocket and threw a cigarette into her lap. She picked it up, put it in her mouth, and put her hand back under the jacket, shuddering as if with cold. She said weakly, "I don't have a light."
"A proper little nuisance, aren't you?" He produced a lighter, flicked it into flame, and bent over her.
Her hands came up swiftly, expertly twisting the wire around his neck. He made a retching sound. His tongue came out and his eyes bulged. Illya completed the demolition with a swinging right to the jaw. The teenager fell forward in a heap.
Blodwen wriggled from under him and grabbed the poodle, which was yapping shrill encouragement. She said, "Nice work, pardner. Now all ashore that's going ashore. I think we've outlived our welcome."
They raced to the outer door of the barn. Illya peered out cautiously. The yard was empty. He said, "The boundary wall is on your left, about a hundred yards away. Keep low and sprint for it. The quicker we're among the bracken, the better."
Blodwen tucked the poodle under her arm like a parcel. She said, "Right, men! Hold on to your hats."
They ran.
They got across the yard unseen and scrambled over the wall. They were fifty yards up the hillside when there came a rattle of machine-gun fire and a bullet sang past Illya's ear like a hornet. He looked back over his shoulder. Rafferty was pounding across the yard from the house. Behind him were Morgan and the man in the white coat. Another man was racing toward the hill at a different angle.
Illya said, "Keep going. Our only chance is to lose them in the high fern."
"You believe in fairies, too?" Blodwen panted.
Another burst of slugs thudded into the ground uncomfortably close. She said, still struggling upward, "He's getting the range. It won't be long now."
"Save your breath," Illya advised. "And try to zigzag."
She said, "I haven't got enough troubles?"
They forged on, the stiff bracken stems whipping and cutting at their faces. The growth was getting thicker, affording them more protection, but the going got tougher by the minute. To add to their difficulties the short grass beneath the fern was slippery as a ballroom floor.
Illya risked another backward glance. Rafferty, legs straddled, was steadying himself for another burst. As he brought the tommy-gun up to position, a shot cracked from somewhere higher up the hill. Rafferty stumbled and went down slowly as if he were praying.
Three more shots came from the hidden marksman. The man in the white coat screamed and clutched his shoulder.
"Dear me!" Illya said mildly. "Now where did the Seventh Cavalry spring from?"
"Whoever it is, he's tucked away somewhere above us and to the right," Blodwen said. "We'd better try to reach him."
The gun cracked again. It sounded neared. Illya said, "Sit tight. He's coming this way."
They waited, listening to the sounds of somebody moving through the fern. After a while the bracken above them parted.
Solo said, "Having fun, my children?"
Blodwen smiled prettily, "How nice of you to drop in. Do you come here often?"
"Only for the shooting. And by the way, you'd better have this." He handed Illya a Luger pistol.
Illya hefted it, testing the balance. He said gravely, "Thank you. I was feeling underdressed." He sighted and pressed the trigger. A spurt of rock flew from the wall an inch from where Morgan was crouching. The Welshman's answering shots were wild.
"Next time," Illya said. He aimed carefully and fired. Morgan pitched sideways and lay still.
"That leaves one," Blodwen commented.
"If he has any sense, he'll keep going," Solo said. "I think it's time we moved in."
"Too late!" Illya pointed to the gray bulk of Cwm Carrog. Smoke was pouring from the upper windows. And as they watched the roof collapsed in a sheet of flame. Almost in the same instant a black Vauxhall nosed out of the garage and headed for the main drive at top speed.
"There goes Mr. Price Hughes," said Blodwen. "Ah, well! Back to the drawing board."
Chapter Eight
Solo and Illya parked the Cortina in an all-night garage off Leicester Square. They walked up Charing Cross Road past the Underground station, crossed the road and entered ill-lit Newport Street. About halfway down on the right-hand side a scarlet neon sign read GLORIANA. DANCING.
Illya looked at it doubtfully. He asked, "You sure this is the place?"
"That's what the number says," Solo confirmed. "The place is on the first floor. There's probably another way in."
A painted girl in a uniform of sequins eyed them from the doorway of the club. She switched on a mechanical smile and said, "You coming in, boys? Lots of girls and all very friendly." She looked about fifteen.
Illya said, "Not tonight. We're busy."
"Some other time, eh?" She returned indifferently to buffing her finger nails with a grubby handkerchief.
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