A hijacked pilot crash-lands in the Andes and ten survivors face terrifying odds - ice, altitude, and the communist guerrillas who are lying in wait for the kill….

Desmond Bagley (1965)

High Citadel

Chapter I

O’Hara frowned in his sleep and burrowed deeper into the pillow. He dragged up the thin sheet which covered him, but that left his feet uncovered and there was a sleepy protest from his companion. Without opening his eyes he put his hand out to the bedside table, seized the alarm clock, and hurled it violently across the room. Then he snuggled into the pillow again.

The bell still rang.

At last he opened his eyes, coming to the realisation that it was the telephone ringing. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared hatefully into the darkness. Ever since he had been in the hotel he had been asking Ramon to transfer the telephone to the bedside, and every time he had been assured that it would be done tommorow. It had been nearly a year.

He got out of bed and padded across the room to the dressing-table without bothering to switch on the light. As he picked up the telephone he tweaked aside the window curtain and glanced outside. It was still dark and the moon was setting — he estimated it was about two hours to dawn.

He grunted into the mouthpiece: “O’Hara.”

“Goddammit, what’s the matter with you?” said Filson. “I’ve been trying to get you for a quarter of an hour.”

“I was asleep,” said O’Hara. “I usually sleep at night — I believe most people do, with the exception of Yankee flight managers.”

“Very funny,” said Filson tiredly. “Well, drag your ass down here — there’s a flight scheduled for dawn.”

“What the hell! I just got back six hours ago. I’m tired.”

“You think I’m not?” said Filson. “This is important — a Samair 727 touched down in an emergency landing and the flight inspector grounded it. The passengers are mad as hornets, so the skipper and the hostess have sorted out priorities and we’ve got to take passengers to the coast. You know what a connection with Samair means to us; it could be that if we treat ‘em nice they’ll use us as a regular feeder.”

“In a pig’s eye,” said O’Hara. “They’ll use you in an emergency but they’ll never put you on their time-tables. All you’ll get are thanks.”

“If a worth trying,” insisted Filson. “So get the hell down here.”

O’Hara debated whether to inform Filson that he had already exceeded his month’s flying hours and that it was only two-thirds through the month. He sighed, and said. “All right, I’m coming.” It would cut no ice with Filson to plead regulations; as far as that hard-hearted character was concerned, the I.A.T.A. regulations were meant to be bent, if not broken. If he conformed to every international regulation, his two-cent firm would be permanently in the red.

Besides, O’Hara thought, this was the end of the line for him. If he lost this job survival would be difficult. There were too many broken-down pilots in South America hunting too few jobs and Filson’s string-and-sealing-wax outfit was about as low as you could get. Hell, he thought disgustedly, I’m on a bloody escalator going the wrong way — it takes all the running I can do to stay in the same place.

He put down the hand-set abruptly and looked -again into the night, scanning the sky. It looked all right here, but what about the mountains? Always he thought about the mountains, those cruel mountains with their jagged white swords stretched skywards to impale him. Filson had better have a good met. report.

He walked to the door and stepped into the corridor, unlit as usual. They turned off all lights in the public rooms at eleven p.m. — it was that kind of hotel. For the millionth time he wondered what he was doing in this godforsaken country, in this tired town, in this sleazy hotel. Unconcernedly naked, he walked down towards the bathroom. In his philosophy if a woman had seen a naked man before then it didn’t matter — if she hadn’t, it was time she did. Anyway, it was dark.

He showered quickly, washing away the night sweat, and returned to his room and switched on the bedside lamp wondering if it would work. It was always a fifty per cent chance that it wouldn’t — the town’s electricity supply was very erratic. The filament glowed faintly and in the dim light he dressed — long woollen underwear, jeans, a thick shirt and a leather jacket. By the time he had finished he was sweating again in the warm tropical night. But it would be cold over the mountains.

From the dressing-table he took a metal flask and shook it tentatively. It was only half full and he frowned. He could wake Ramon and get a refill but that was not politic; for one thing Ramon did not like being wakened at night, end for another he would ask cutting questions about when his bill was going to be paid. Perhaps he could get something at the airport.

O’Hara was just leaving when he paused at the door and turned back to look at the sprawling figure in the bed. The sheet had slipped revealing dark breasts tipped a darker colour. He looked at her critically. Her olive skin had an underlying coppery sheen and he thought there was a sizeable admixture of Indian in this one. With a rueful grimace he took a thin wallet from the inside pocket of his leathery jacket, extracted two notes and tossed them on the bedside table. Then he went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

ii

When he pulled his battered car into the parking bay he looked with interest at the unaccustomed bright lights of the airport. The field was low-grade, classed as an emergency strip by the big operators, although to Filson it was a main base. A Samair Boeing 727 lay sleekly in front of the control, tower and O’Hara looked at it enviously for a while, then switched his attention to the hangar beyond.

A Dakota was being loaded and, even at that distance, the lights were bright enough for O’Hara to see the emblem on the tail — two intertwine. “A’s,” painted artistically to look like mountain peaks. He smiled gently to himself. It was appropriate that he should fly a plane decorated with the Double-A; alcoholics of the world unite — it was a pity Filson didn’t see the joke. But Filson was very proud of his Andes Airlift and never joked about it. A humourless man, altogether.

He got out of the car and walked around to the main building to find it was full of people, tired people rudely awakened and set down in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. He pushed his way through the crowd towards Filson’s office. An American voice with a Western twang complained loudly and bitterly. “This is a damned disgrace — I’m going to speak to Mr. Coulson about it when I get back to Rio.”

O’Hara grinned as he pushed open the door of the office. Filson was sitting at his desk in his shirt-sleeves, his face shiny with sweat. He always sweated, particularly in an emergency and since his life was in a continual state of crisis it was a wonder he didn’t melt away altogether. He looked up.

“So you got here at last.”

“I’m always pleased at the welcome I get,” observed O’Hara.

Filson ignored that. “All right; this is the dope,” he said. “I’ve contracted with Samair to take ten of their passengers to Santillana — they’re the ones who have to make connections with a ship. You’ll take number one — she’s being serviced now.” His voice was briskly businesslike and O’Hara could tell by the way he sonorously rolled out the word. “contracted with Samair” that he saw himself as a big-time air operator doing business with his peers instead of what he really was — an ageing ex-pilot making a precarious living off two twenty-five-year-old rattling ex-army surplus planes.

O’Hara merely said. “Who’s coming with me?”

“Grivas.”

“That cocky little bastard.”

“He volunteered — which is more than you did,” snapped Filson.

“Oh?”

“He was here when the 727 touched down,” said Filson. He smiled thinly at O’Hara. “It was his idea to put it to Samair that we take some of their more urgent passengers, so he phoned me right away. That’s the kind of quick thinking we need in this organisation.”

“I don’t like him in a plane,” said O’Hara.

“So you’re a better pilot,” said Filson reluctantly. “That’s why you’re skipper and he’s going as co-pilot.” He looked at the ceiling reflectively. “When this deal with Samair comes off maybe I’ll promote Grivas to the office. He’s too good to be a pilot.”

Filson had delusions of grandeur. O’Hara said deliberately. “If you think that South American Air is going to give you a feeder contract, you’re crazy. You’ll get paid for taking their passengers and you’ll get their thanks — for what they’re worth — and they’ll kiss you off fast.”

Filson pointed a pen at O’Hara. “You’re paid to jockey a plane — leave the heavy thinking to me.”

O’Hara gave up. “What happened to the 727?”

“Something wrong with the fuel feed — they’re looking at it now.” Filson picked up a sheaf of papers. “There’s a crate of machinery to go for servicing. Here’s the manifest.”

“Christ!” said O’Hara. “This is an unscheduled flight. Do you have to do this?”

“Unscheduled or not, you’re going with a full load. Damned if I send a half empty plane when I can send a full one.”

O’Hara was mournful. “It’s just that I thought I’d have an easy trip for a change. You know you always overload and it’s a hell of a job going through the passes. The old bitch wallows like a hippo.”

“You’re going at the best time,” said Filson. “It’ll be worse later in the day when the sun has warmed things up. Now get the hell out of here and stop bothering me.”

O’Hara left the office. The main hall was emptying, a stream of disgruntled Samair passengers leaving for the antiquated airport bus. A few people still stood about — those would be the passengers for Santillana. O’Hara ignored them; passengers or freight, it was all one to him. He took them over the Andes and dumped them on the other side and there was no point in getting involved with them. A bus driver doesn’t mix with his passengers, he thought; and that’s all I am — a bloody vertical bus driver.

He glanced at the manifest. Filson had done it again — there were two crates and and he was aghast at their weight. One of these days, he thought savagely, I’ll get an I.A.T.A. inspector up here at the right time and Filson will go for a loop. He crushed the manifest in his fist and went to inspect the Dakota.

Grivas was by the plane, lounging gracefully against the undercarriage. He straightened when he saw O’Hara and flicked his cigarette across the tarmac but did not step forward to meet him. O’Hara crossed over and said. “Is the cargo aboard?”

Grivas smiled. “Yes.”

“Did you check it? Is it secure?”

“Of course, Senor O’Hara. I saw to it myself.”

O’Hara grunted. He did not like Grivas, neither as a man nor as a pilot. He distrusted his smoothness, the slick patina of pseudo good breeding that covered him like a sheen from his patent leather hair and trim toothbrush moustache to his highly polished shoes. Grivas was a slim wiry man, not very tall, who always wore a smile. O’Hara distrusted the smile most of all.

“What’s the weather?” he asked.

Grivas looked at the sky. “It seems all right.”

O’Hara let acid creep into his voice. “A met. report would be a good thing, don’t you think?”

Grivas grinned. “I’ll get it,” he said.

O’Hara watched him go, then turned to the Dakota and walked round to the cargo doors. The Dakota had been one of the most successful planes ever designed, the work-horse of the Allied forces during the war. Over ten thousand of them had fought a good war, flying countless millions of ton-miles of precious freight about the world. It was a good plane in its time, but that was long ago.

This Dakota was twenty-five years old, battered by too many air hours with too little servicing. O’Hara knew the exact amount of play in the rudder cables; he knew how to nurse the worn-out engines so as to get the best out of them — and a poor best it was; he knew the delicate technique of landing so as not to put too much strain on the weakened undercarriage. And he knew that one day the whole sorry fabric would play a murderous trick on him high over the white spears of the Andes.

He climbed into the plane and looked about the cavernous interior. There were ten seats up front, not the luxurious reclining couches of Samair but uncomfortable hard leather chairs each fitted with the safety-belt that even Filson could not skip, although he had grumbled at the added cost. The rest of the fuselage was devoted to cargo space and was at present occupied by two large crates.

O’Hara went round them testing the anchoring straps with his hand. He had a horror that one day the cargo would slide forward if he made a bad landing or hit very bad turbulence. That would be the end of any passengers who had the ill-luck to be flying Andes Airlift. He cursed as he found a loose strap. Grivas and his slipshod ways would be the end of him one day.

Having seen the cargo was secured he went forward into the cockpit and did a routine check of the instruments. A mechanic was working on the port engine so O’Hara leaned out of the side window and asked in Spanish if it was all right. The mechanic spat, then drew his finger across his throat and made a bloodcurdling sound. “De un momenta a otro.”

He finished the instrument check and went into the hangar to find Fernandez, the chief mechanic, who usually had a bottle or two stored away, strictly against Filson’s orders.

O’Hara liked Fernandez and he knew that Fernandez liked him; they got on well together and O’Hara made a point of keeping it that way — to be at loggerheads with the chief mechanic would be a passport to eternity in this job.

He chatted for a while with Fernandez, then filled his flask and took a hasty gulp from the bottle before he passed it back. Dawn was breaking as he strode back to the Dakota, and Grivas was in the cockpit fussing with the disposal of his briefcase. It’s a funny thing, thought O’Hara, that the briefcase is just as much a part of an airline pilot as it is of any city gent. His own was under his seat; all it contained was a packet of sandwiches which he had picked up at an all-night cafe.

“Got the met. report?” he asked Grivas.

Grivas passed over the sheet of paper and O’Hara said. “You can taxi her down to the apron.”

He studied the report. It wasn’t too bad — it wasn’t bad at all. No storms, no anomalies, no trouble — just good weather over the mountains. But O’Hara had known the meteorologists to be wrong before and there was no release of the tension within him. It was that tension, never relaxed in the air, that had kept him alive when a lot of better men had died.

As the Dakota came to a halt on the apron outside the main building, he saw Filson leading the small group of passengers. “See they have their seatbelts properly fastened,” he said to Grivas.

“I’m not a hostess,” said Grivas sulkily.

“When you’re sitting on this side of the cockpit you can give orders,” said O’Hara coldly. “Right now you take them. And I’d like you to do a better job of securing the passengers than you did of the cargo.”

The smile left Grivas’s face, but he turned and went into the main cabin. Presently Filson came forward and thrust a form at O’Hara. “Sign this.”

It was the I.A.T.A. certificate of weights and fuel. O’Hara saw that Filson had cheated on the weights as usual, but made no comment and scribbled his signature. Filson said. “As soon as you land give me a ring. There might be return cargo.”

O’Hara nodded and Filson withdrew. There was the double slam as the door closed and O’Hara said, “Take her to the end of the strip.” He switched on the radio, warming it up.

Grivas was still sulky and would not talk. He made no answer as he revved the engines and the Dakota waddled away from the main building into the darkness, ungainly and heavy on the ground. At the end of the runway O’Hara thought for a moment. Filson had not given him a flight number. To hell with it, he thought; control ought to know what’s going on. He clicked on the microphone and said. “A.A. special flight, destination Santillana — A.A. to San Croce control — ready to take off.”

A voice crackled tinnily in his ear. “San Croce control to Andes Airlift special Permission given — time 2.33 G.M.T.”

“Roger and out.” He put his hand to the throttles and waggled the stick. There was a stickiness about it. Without looking at Grivas he said. “Take your hands off the controls.” Then he pushed on the throttle levers and the engines roared. Four minutes later the Dakota was airborne after an excessively long run.

He stayed at the controls for an hour, personally supervising the long climb to the roof of the world. He liked to find out if the old bitch was going to spring a new surprise. Cautiously he carried out gentle, almost imperceptible evolutions, his senses attuned to the feel of the plane. Occasionally he glanced at Grivas who was sitting frozen-faced in the other seat, staring blankly through the windscreen.

At last he was satisfied and engaged the automatic pilot but spent another quarter-hour keeping a wary eye on it. It had behaved badly on the last flight but Fernandez had assured him that it was now all right. He trusted Fernandez, but not that much — it was always better to do the final check personally.

Then he relaxed and looked ahead. It was much lighter in the high air and, although the dawn was behind, the sky ahead was curiously light. O’Hara knew why; it was the snow blink as the first light of the sun caught the high white peaks of the Andes. The mountains themselves were as yet invisible,, lost in the early haze rising from the jungle below.

He began to think about his passengers and he wondered if they knew what they had got themselves into. This was no pressurised jet aircraft and they were going to fly pretty high — it would be cold and the air would be thin and he hoped none of the passengers had heart trouble. Presumably Filson had warned them, although he wouldn’t put it past that bastard to keep his mouth shut. He was even too stingy to provide decent oxygen masks — there were only mouth tubes to the oxygen bottles to port and starboard.

He scratched his cheek thoughtfully. These weren’t the ordinary passengers he was used to carrying — the American mining engineers flying to San Croce and the poorer type of local businessman proud to be flying even by Andes Airlift. These were the Samair type of passengers — wealthy and not over fond of hardship. They were in a hurry, too, or they would have had more sense than to fly Andes Airlift. Perhaps he had better break his rule and go back to talk to them. When they found they weren’t going to fly over the Andes but through them they might get scared. It would be better to warn them first.

He pushed his uniform cap to the back of his head and said. “Take over, Grivas. I’m going to talk to the passengers.”

Grivas lifted his eyebrows — so surprised that he forgot to, be sulky. He shrugged. “Why? What is so important about the passengers? Is this Samair?” He laughed noiselessly. “But, yes, of course — you have seen the girl; you want to see her again, eh?”

“What girl?”

“Just a girl, a woman; very beautiful. I think I will get to know her and take her out when we arrive in — er — Santillana,” said Grivas thoughtfully. He looked at O’Hara out of the corner of his eye.

O’Hara grunted and took the passenger manifest from his breast pocket. As he suspected, the majority were American. He went through the list rapidly. Mr. and Mrs. Coughlin of Challis, Idaho — tourists; Dr. James Armstrong, London, England — no profession stated; Raymond Forester of New York — businessman; Senor and Senorita Montes — Argentinian and no profession stated; Miss Jennifer Ponsky of South Bridge, Connecticut — tourist; Dr. Willis of California; Miguel Rohde — no stated nationality, profession — importer; Joseph Peabody of Chicago, Illinois — -businessman.

He flicked his finger on the manifest and grinned at Grivas. “Jennifer’s a nice name—but Ponsky? I can’t see you going around with anyone called Ponsky.”

Grivas looked startled, then laughed convulsively. “Ah, my friend, you can have the fair Ponsky — I’ll stick to my girl.”

O’Hara looked at the list again. “Then it must be Senorita Montes — unless it’s Mrs. Coughlin.”

Grivas chuckled, his good spirits recovered. “You find out for yourself.”

“I’ll do that,” said O’Hara. “Take over.”

He went back into the main cabin and was confronted by ten uplifted heads. He smiled genially, modelling himself on the Samair pilots to whom public relations was as important as flying ability. Lifting his voice above the roar of the engines, he said. “I suppose I ought to tell you that we’ll be reaching the mountains in about an hour. It will get cold, so I suggest you wear your overcoats. Mi. Filson will have told you that this aircraft isn’t pressurised, but we don’t fly at any great height for more than an hour, so you’ll be quite all right.”

A burly man with a whisky complexion interjected. “No one told me that.”

O’Hara cursed Filson under his breath and broadened his smile. “Well, not to worry, Mr. — er …”

“Peabody — Joe Peabody.”

“Mr. Peabody. It will be quite all right. There is an oxygen mouthpiece next to every seat which I advise you to use if you feel breathing difficult. Now, it gets a bit wearying shouting like this above the engine noise, so I’ll come round and talk to you individually.” He smiled at Peabody, who glowered back at him.

He bent to the first pair of seats on the port side. “Could I have your names, please?”

The first man said. “I’m Forester.” The other contributed. “Willis.”

“Glad to have you aboard, Dr. Willis, Mr. Forester.”

Forester said. “I didn’t bargain for this, you know. I didn’t think kites like this were still flying.”

O’Hara smiled deprecatingly. “Well, this is an emergency flight and it was laid on in the devil of a hurry. I’m sure it was an oversight that Mr. Filson forgot to tell you that this isn’t a pressurised plane.” Privately he was not sure of anything of the kind.

Willis said with a smile. “I came here to study high altitude conditions. I’m certainly starting with a bang. How high do we fly, Captain?”

“Not more than seventeen thousand feet,” said O’Hara. “We fly through the passes — we don’t go over the top. You’ll find the oxygen mouthpieces easy to use — all you do is suck.” He smiled and turned away and found himself held.

Peabody was clutching his sleeve, leaning forward over the seat behind. “Hey, Skipper… .”

“I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Peabody,” said O’Hara, and held Peabody with his eye. Peabody blinked rapidly, released his grip and subsided into his seat, and O’Hara turned to starboard.

The man was elderly, with an aquiline nose and a short grey beard. With him was a young girl of startling beauty, judging by what O’Hara could see of her face, which was not much because she was huddled deep into a fur coat. He said. “Senor Montes?”

The man inclined his head. “Don’t worry, Captain, we know what to expect.” He waved a gloved hand. “You see we are well prepared. I know the Andes, senor, and I know these aircraft. I know the Andes well; I have been over them on foot and by mule — in my youth I climbed some of the high peaks — didn’t I, Benedetta?”

“Si, tio,” she said in a colourless voice. “But that was long ago. I don’t know if your heart …”

He patted her on the leg. “I will be all right if I relax; is that not so, Captain?”

“Do you understand the use of this oxygen tube?” asked O’Hara.

Montes nodded confidently, and O’Hara said. “Your uncle will be quite all right, Senorita Montes.” He waited for her to reply but she made no answer, so he passed on to the seats behind.

These couldn’t be the Coughlins; they were too ill-assorted a pair to be American tourists, although the woman was undoubtedly American. O’Hara said inquiringly. “Miss Ponsky?”

She lifted a sharp nose and said. “I declare this is all wrong, Captain. You must turn back at once.”

The fixed smile on O’Hara’s face nearly slipped. “I fly this route regularly, Miss Ponsky,” he said. “There is nothing to fear.”

But there was naked fear on her face — air fear. Sealed in the air-conditioned quietness of a modern jet-liner she could subdue it, but the primitiveness of the Dakota brought it to the surface. There was no clever decor to deceive her into thinking that she was in a drawing-room, just the stark functionalism of unpainted aluminium, battered and scratched, and with the plumbing showing like a dissected body.

O’Hara said quietly, “What is your profession, Miss Ponsky?”

“Fin a school teacher back in South Bridge,” she said. “I’ve been teaching there for thirty years.”

He judged she was naturally garrulous and perhaps this could be a way of conquering her fear. He glanced at the man, who said. “Miguel Rohde.”

He was a racial anomaly — a Spanish-German name and Spanish-German features — straw-coloured hair and beady black eyes. There had been German immigration into South America for many years and this was one of the results.

O’Hara said, “Do you know the Andes, Senor Rohde?”

“Very well,” he replied in a grating voice. He nodded ahead. “I lived up there for many years — now I am going back.”

O’Hara switched back to Miss Ponsky. “Do you teach geography, Miss Ponsky?”

She nodded. “Yes, I do. That’s one of the reasons I came to South America on my vacation. It makes such a difference if you can describe things first-hand.”

“Then here you have a marvellous opportunity,” said O’Hara with enthusiasm. “You’ll see the Andes as you never would if you’d flown Samair. And I’m sure that Senor Rohde will point out the interesting sights.”

Rohde nodded understandingly. “Si, very interesting; I know it well, the mountain country.”

O’Hara smiled reassuringly at Miss Ponsky, who offered him a glimmering, tremulous smile in return. He caught a twinkle in Rohde’s black eyes as he turned to the port side again.

The man sitting next to Peabody was undoubtedly British, so O’Hara said. “Glad to have you with us, Dr. Armstrong — Mr. Peabody.”

Armstrong said. “Nice to hear an English accent, Captain, after all this Spa “

Peabody broke in. “I’m damned if I’m glad to be here, skipper. What in hell kind of an airline is this, for god-sake?”

“One run by an American, Mr. Peabody,” said O’Hara calmly. “As you were saying, Dr. Armstrong?”

“Never expected to see an English captain out here,” said Armstrong.

“Well, I’m Irish, and we tend to get about,” said O’Hara. “I’d put on some warm clothing if I were you. You, too, Mr. Peabody.”

Peabody laughed and suddenly burst into song. “’ I’ve got my love to keep me warm’.” He produced a hip flask and waved it. “This is as good as a top-coat.”

For a moment O’Hara saw himself in Peabody and was shocked and afraid. “As you wish,” he said bleakly, and passed on to the last pair of seats opposite the luggage racks.

The Coughlins were an elderly couple, very Darby and Joanish. He roust have been pushing seventy and she was not far behind, but there was a suggestion of youth about their eyes, good-humoured and with a zest for life. O’Hara said, “Are you all right, Mrs. Coughlin?”

“Fine,” she said. “Aren’t we, Harry?”

“Sure,” said Coughlin, and looked up at O’Hara. “Will we be flying through the Puerto de las Aguilas?”

“That’s right,” said O’Hara. “Do you know these parts?”

Coughlin laughed. “Last time I was round here was in 1912. I’ve just come down to show my wife where I spent my misspent youth.” He turned to her. “That means Eagle Pass, you know; it took me two weeks to get across back in 1910, and here we are doing it in an hour or two. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“It sure is,” Mrs. Coughlin replied comfortably.

There was nothing wrong with the Coughlins, decided O’Hara, so after a few more words he went back to the cockpit. Grivas still had the plane on automatic pilot and was sitting relaxed, gazing forward at the mountains. O’Hara sat down and looked intently at the oncoming mountain wall. He checked the course and said. “Keep taking a bearing on Chimitaxl and let me know when it’s two hundred and ten degrees true bearing. You know the drill.”

He stared down at the ground looking for landmarks and nodded with satisfaction as he saw the sinuous, twisting course of the Rio Sangre and the railway bridge that crossed it. Flying this route by day and for so long he knew the ground by heart and knew immediately whether he was on time. He judged that the north-west wind predicted by the meteorologists was a little stronger than they had prophesied and altered course accordingly, then he jacked in the auto pilot again and relaxed. All would be quiet until Grivas came up with the required bearing on Chimitaxl. He sat in repose and watched the ground slide away behind — the dun and olive foothills, craggy bare rock, and then the shining snow-covered peaks. Presently he munched on the sandwiches he took from his briefcase. He thought of washing them down with a drink from his flask but then he thought of Peabody’s whisky-sodden face. Something inside him seemed to burst and he found that he didn’t need a drink after all.

Grivas suddenly put down the bearing compass. “Thirty seconds,” he said.

O’Hara looked at the wilderness of high peaks before him, a familiar wilderness. Some of these mountains were his friends, like Chimitaxl; they pointed out his route. Others were his deadly enemies — devils and demons lurked among them compounded of down draughts, driving snow and mists. But he was not afraid because it was all familiar and he knew and understood the dangers and how to escape them.

Grivas said. “Now,” and O’Hara swung the control column gently, experience telling him the correct turn. His feet automatically moved in conjunction with his hands and the Dakota swept to port in a wide, easy curve, heading for a gap in the towering wall ahead.

Grivas said softly,. “Senor O’Hara.”

“Don’t bother me now.”

“But I must,” said Grivas, and there was a tiny metallic click.

O’Hara glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and stiffened as he saw that Grivas was pointing a gun at him — a compact automatic pistol.

He jerked his head, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Have you gone crazy?”

Grivas’s smile widened. “Does it matter?” he said indifferently. “We do not go through the Puerto de las Aguilas this trip, Senor O’Hara, that is all that matters.” His voice hardened. “Now steer course one-eight-four on a true bearing.”

O’Hara took a deep breath and held his course. “You must have gone out of your mind,” he said. “Put down that gun, Grivas, and maybe we’ll forget this. I suppose I have been bearing down on you a bit too much, but that’s no reason to pull a gun. Put it away and we’ll straighten things out when we get to Santillana.”

Grivas’s teeth flashed. “You’re a stupid man, O’Hara; do you think I do this for personal reasons? But since you mention it, you said not long ago that sitting in the captain’s seat gave you authority.” He lifted the gun slightly. “You were wrong — this gives authority; ail the authority there is. Now change course or I’ll blow your head off. I can fly this aircraft too, remember.”

“They’d hear you inside,” said O’Hara.

“I’ve locked the door, and what could they do? They wouldn’t take the controls from the only pilot. But that would be of no consequence to you, O’Hara — you’d be dead.”

O’Hara saw his finger tighten on the trigger and bit his lip before swinging the control column. The Dakota turned to fly south, parallel to the main backbone of the Andes. Grivas was right, damn him; there was no point in getting himself killed. But what the hell was he up to?

He settled on the bearing given by Grivas and reached forward to the auto pilot control. Grivas jerked the gun. “No, Senor O’Hara; you fly this aircraft — it will give you something to do.”

O’Hara drew back his hand slowly and grasped the wheel. He looked out to starboard past Grivas at the high peaks drifting by. “Where are we going?” he asked grimly.

“That is of no consequence,” said Grivas. “But it is not very far. We land at an airstrip in five minutes.”

O’Hara thought about that. There was no airstrip that he knew of on this course. There were no airstrips at all this high in the mountains except for the military strips, and those were on the Pacific side of the Andes chain. He would have to wait and see.

His eyes flickered to the microphone set on its hook close to his left hand. He looked at Grivas and saw he was not wearing his earphones. If the microphone was switched on then any loud conversation would go on the air and Grivas would be unaware of it. It was definitely worth trying.

He said to Grivas. “There are no airstrips on this course.” His left hand strayed from the wheel.

“You don’t know everything, O’Hara.”

His fingers touched the microphone and he leaned over to obstruct Grivas’s vision as much as possible, pretending to study the instruments. His fingers found the switch and he snapped it over and then he leaned back and relaxed. In a loud voice he said. “You’ll never get away with this, Grivas; you can’t steal a whole aeroplane so easily. When this Dakota is overdue at Santillana they’ll lay on a search — you know that as well as I do.”

Grivas laughed. “Oh, you’re clever, O’Hara — but I was cleverer. The radio is not working, you know. I took out the tubes when you were talking to the passengers.”

O’Hara felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He looked at the jumble of peaks ahead and felt frightened. This was country he did not know and there would be dangers he could not recognise. He felt frightened for himself and for his passengers.

iii

It was cold in the passenger cabin, and the air was thin. Senor Montes had blue lips and his face had turned grey. He sucked on the oxygen tube and his niece fumbled in her bag and produced a small bottle of pills. He smiled painfully and put a pill in his mouth, letting it dissolve on his tongue. Slowly some colour came back into his face; not a lot, but he looked better than he had before taking the pill.

In the seat behind, Miss Ponsky’s teeth were chattering, not with cold but with conversation. Already Miguel Rohde had learned much of her life history, in which he had not the slightest interest although he did not show it. He let her talk, prompting her occasionally, and all the time he regarded the back of Montes’s head with lively black eyes. At a question from Miss Ponsky he looked out of the window and suddenly frowned.

The Coughlins were also looking out of the window. Mr. Coughlin said. “I’d have sworn we were going to head that way — through that pass. But we suddenly changed course south.”

“It all looks the same to me,” said Mrs. Coughlin. “Just a lot of mountains and snow.”

Coughlin said. “From what I remember, El Puerto de las Aguilas is back there.”

“Oh, Harry, I’m sure you don’t really remember. It’s nearly fifty years since you were here — and you never saw it from an airplane.”

“Maybe,” he said, unconvinced, . “But it sure is funny.”

“Now, Harry, the pilot knows what he’s doing. He looked a nice efficient young man to me.”

Coughlin continued to look from the window. He said nothing more.

James Armstrong of London, England, was becoming very bored with Joe Peabody of Chicago, Illinois. The man was a positive menace. Already he had sunk half the contents of his flask, which seemed an extraordinarily large one, and he was getting combatively drunk. “Whadya think of the nerve of that goddam fly-boy, chokin’ me off like that?” he demanded. “Actin’ high an’ mighty jus’ like the goddam limey he is.”

Armstrong smiled gently. “I’m a — er — goddam limey too. you know,” he pointed out.

“Well, jeez, presen’ comp’ny excepted,” said Peabody. “That’s always the rule, ain’t it? I ain’t got anything against you limeys really, excep’ you keep draggin’ us into your wars.”

“I take it you read the Chicago Tribune,” said Armstrong solemnly.

Forester and Willis did not talk much — they had nothing in common. Willis had produced a large book as soon as they exhausted their small talk and to Forester it looked heavy in all senses of the word, being mainly mathematical.

Forester had nothing to do. In front of him Was an aluminium bulkhead on which an axe and a first-aid box were mounted. There was no profit in looking at that and consequently his eyes frequently strayed across the aisle to Senor Montes. His lips tightened as he noted the bad colour of Montes’s face and he looked at the first aid-box reflectively.

iv

“There it is,” said Grivas. “You land there.”

O’Hara straightened up and looked over the nose of the Dakota. Dead ahead amid a jumble of rocks and snow was a short airstrip, a mere track cut on a ledge of a mountain. He had time for the merest glimpse before it was gone behind them.

Grivas waved the gun. “Circle it,” he said.

O’Hara eased the plane into an orbit round the strip and looked down at it. There were buildings down there, rough cabins in a scattered group, and there was a road leading down the mountain, twisting and turning like a snake. Someone had thoughtfully cleared the airstrip of snow, but there was no sign of life.

He judged his distance from the ground and glanced at the altimeter. “You’re crazy, Grivas,” he said. “We can’t land on that strip.”

“You can, O’Hara,” said Grivas.

“I’m damned if I’m going to. This plane’s overloaded and that strip’s at an altitude of seventeen thousand feet. It would need to be three times as long for this crate to land safely. The air’s too thin to hold us up at a stow landing speed — we’ll hit the ground at a hell of a lick and we won’t be able to pull up. We’ll shoot off the other end of the strip and crash on the side of the mountain.”

“You can do it.”

“To hell with you,” said O’Hara.

Grivas lifted his gun. “All right, I’ll do it,” he said. “But I’ll have to kill you first.”

O’Hara looked at the black hole staring at him like an evil eye. He could see the rifling inside the muzzle and it looked as big as a howitzer. In spite of the cold, he was sweating and could feel rivulets of perspiration running down his back. He turned away from Grivas and studied the strip again. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“You would not know if I told you,” said Grivas. “You would not understand — you are English.”

O’Hara sighed. It was going to be very dicey; he might be able to get the Dakota down in approximately one piece, but Grivas wouldn’t have a chance — he’d pile it up for sure. He said. “All right — warn the passengers; get them to the rear of the cabin.”

“Never mind the passengers,” said Grivas flatly. “You do not think that I am going to leave this cockpit?”

O’Hara said. “All right, you’re calling the shots, but I warn you — don’t touch the controls by as much as a finger. You’re not a pilot’s backside — and you know it. There can be only . one man flying a plane.”

“Get on with it,” said Grivas shortly.

“I’ll take my own time,” said O’Hara. “I want a good look before I do a damn thing.”

He orbited the airstrip four more times, watching it as it spun crazily beneath the Dakota. The passengers should know there was something wrong by this time, he thought. No ordinary airliner stood on its wingtip and twitched about like this. Maybe they’d get alarmed and someone would try to do something about it — that might give him a chance to get at Grivas. But what the passengers could do was problematical.

The strip was all too short; it was also very narrow and made for a much smaller aircraft. He would have to land on the extreme edge, his wingtip brushing a rock wall. Then there was the question of wind direction. He looked down at the cabins, hoping to detect a wisp of smoke from the chimneys, but there was nothing.

“I’m going to go in closer — over the strip,” he said. “But I’m not landing this time.”

He pulled out of orbit and circled widely to come in for a landing approach. He lined up the nose of the Dakota on the strip like a gunsight and the plane came in, fast and level. To starboard there was a blur of rock and snow and O’Hara held his breath. If the wingtip touched the rock wall that would be the end. Ahead, the strip wound underneath, as though it was being swallowed by the Dakota. There was nothing as the strip ended — just a deep valley and the blue sky. He hauled on the stick and the plane shot skyward.

The passengers will know damn well there’s something wrong now, he thought. To Grivas he said,. “We’re not going to get this aircraft down in one piece.”

“Just get me down safely,” said Grivas. “I’m the only one who matters.”

O’Hara grinned tightly. “You don’t matter a damn to me”

“Then think of your own neck,” said Grivas. “That will take care of mine, too.”

But O’Hara was thinking of ten lives in the passenger cabin. He circled widely again to make another approach and debated with himself the best way of doing this. He could come in with the undercarriage up or down. A belly-landing would be rough at that speed, but the plane would slow down faster because of the increased friction. The question was: could he hold her straight? On the other hand if he came in with the undercarriage down he would lose airspeed before he hit the deck — that was an advantage too.

He smiled grimly and decided to do both. For the first time he blessed Filson and his lousy aeroplanes. He knew to a hair how much stress the undercarriage would take; hitherto his problem had been that of putting the Dakota down gently. This time he would come in with undercarriage down, losing speed, and slam her down hard — hard enough to break off the weakened struts like matchsticks. That would give him his belly-landing, too.

He sighted the nose of the Dakota on the strip again. “Well, here goes nothing,” he said. “Flaps down; undercarriage down.”

v

As the plane lost airspeed the controls felt mushy under his hands. He set his teeth and concentrated as never before.

As the plane tipped wing down and started to orbit the airstrip Armstrong was thrown violently against Peabody. Peabody was in the act of taking another mouthful of whisky and the neck of the flask suddenly jammed against his teeth. He spluttered and yelled incoherently and thrust hard against Armstrong.

Rohde was thrown out of his seat and found himself sitting in the aisle, together with Coughlin and Monies. He struggled to his feet, shaking his head violently, then he bent to help Monies, speaking quick Spanish. Mrs. Coughlin helped her husband back to his seat.

Willis had been making a note in the margin of his book and the point of his pencil snapped as Forester lurched against him. Forester made no attempt to regain his position but looked incredulously out of the window, ignoring Willis’s feeble protests at being squashed. Forester was a big man.

The whole cabin was a babel of sound in English and Spanish, dominated by the sharp and scratchy voice of Miss Ponsky as she querulously complained. “I knew it,” she screamed. “I knew it was all wrong.” She began to laugh hysterically and Rohde turned from Monies and slapped her with a heavy hand. She looked at him in surprise and suddenly burst into tears.

Peabody shouted. “What in goddam hell is that limey doing now?” He stared out of the window at the airstrip. “The bastard’s going to land.”

Rohde spoke rapidly to Monies, who seemed so shaken he was apathetic. There was a quick exchange in Spanish between Rohde and the girl, and he pointed to the door leading to the cockpit. She nodded violently and he stood up.

Mrs. Coughlin was leaning forward in her seat, comforting Miss Ponsky. “Nothing’s going to happen,” she kept saying. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

The aircraft straightened as O’Hara came in for his first approach run. Rohde leaned over Armstrong and looked through the window, but turned as Miss Ponsky screamed in fright, looking at the blur of rock streaming past the starboard window and seeing the wingtip brushing it so closely. Then Rohde lost his balance again as O’Hara pulled the Dakota into a climb.

It was Forester who made the first constructive move. He was nearest the door leading to the cockpit and he grabbed the door handle, turned and pushed. Nothing happened. He put his shoulder to the door but was thrown away as the plane turned rapidly. O’Hara was going into his final landing approach.

Forester grabbed the axe from its clips on the bulkhead and raised it to strike, but his arm was caught by Rohde. “This is quicker,” said Rohde, and lifted a heavy pistol in his other hand. He stepped in front of Forester and fired three quick shots at the lock of lie door.

vi

O’Hara heard the shots a fraction of a second before the Dakota touched down. He not only heard them but saw the altimeter and the turn-and-climb indicator’ shiver into fragments as the bullets smashed into the instrument panel. But he had no time to see what was happening behind him because just then the heavily overloaded Dakota settled soggily at the extreme end of the strip, moving at high speed.

There was a sickening crunch and the whole air frame shuddered as the undercarriage collapsed and the plane sank on to its belly and slid with a tearing, rending sound towards the far end of the strip. O’Hara fought frantically with the controls as they kicked against his hands and feet and tried to keep the aircraft sliding in a straight line.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Grivas turn to the door, his pistol raised. O’Hara took a chance, lifted one hand from the stick and struck out blindly at Grivas. He just had time for one blow and luckily it connected somewhere; he felt the edge of his hand strike home and then he was too busy to see if he had incapacitated Grivas.

The Dakota was still moving too fast. Already it was more than halfway down the strip and O’Hara could see the emptiness ahead where the strip stopped at the lip of the valley. In desperation he swung the rudder hard over and the Dakota swerved with a loud grating sound.

He braced himself for the crash.

The starboard wingtip hit the rock wall and the Dakota spun sharply to the right. O’Hara kept the rudder forced right over and saw the rock wall coming right at him. The nose of the plane hit rock and crumpled and the safety glass in the windscreens shivered into opacity. Then something hit him on the head and he lost consciousness.

vii

He came round because someone was slapping his face. His head rocked from side to side and he wanted them to stop because it was so good to be asleep. The slapping went on and on and he moaned and tried to tell them to stop. But the slapping did not stop so he opened his eyes.

It was Forester who was administering the punishment, and, as O’Hara opened his eyes, he turned to Rohde who was standing behind him and said. “Keep your gun on him.”

Rohde smiled. His gun was in his hand but hanging slackly and pointing to the floor. He made no attempt to bring it up. Forester said. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

O’Hara painfully lifted his arm to his head. He had a bump on his skull the size of an egg. He said weakly, “Where’s Grivas?”

“Who is Grivas?”

“My co-pilot.”

“He’s here — he’s in a bad way.”

“I hope the bastard dies,” said O’Hara bitterly. “He pulled a gun on me.”

“You were at the controls,” said Forester, giving him a hard look. “You put this plane down here — and I want to know why.”

“It was Grivas — he forced me to do it.”

“The senor capitan is right,” said Rohde. “This man Grivas was going to shoot me and the senor capitan hit him.” He bowed stiffly. “Muchos gracias.”

Forester swung round and looked at Rohde, then beyond him to Grivas. “Is he conscious?”

O’Hara looked across the cockpit. The side of the fuselage was caved in and a blunt spike of rock had hit Grivas in the chest, smashing his rib cage. It looked as though he wasn’t going to make it, after all. But he was conscious, all right; his eyes were open and he looked at them with hatred.

O’Hara could bear a woman screaming endlessly in the passenger cabin and someone else was moaning monotonously. “For Christ’s sake, what’s happened back there?”

No one answered because Grivas began to speak. He mumbled in a low whisper and blood frothed round his mouth. “They’ll get you,” he said. “They’ll be here any minute now.” His lips parted in a ghastly smile. “I’ll be all right; they’ll take me to hospital. But you — you’ll …” He broke off in a fit of coughing and then continued. “… they’ll kill the lot of you.” He lifted up his arm, the fingers curling into a fist. “Vivaca… .”

The arm dropped flaccidly and the look of hate in his eyes deepened into surprise — surprise that he was dead.

Rohde grabbed him by the wrist and held it for a moment. “He’s gone,” he said.

“He was a lunatic,” said O’Hara. “Stark, staring mad.”

The woman was still screaming and Forester said. “For God’s sake, let’s get everybody out of here.”

Just then the Dakota lurched sickeningly and the whole cockpit rose in the air. There was a ripping sound as the spike of rock that had killed Grivas tore at the aluminium sheathing of the fuselage. O’Hara had a sudden and horrible intuition of what was happening. “Nobody move,” he shouted. “Everyone keep still.”

He turned to Forester. “Bash in those windows.”

Forester looked in surprise at the axe he was still holding as though he had forgotten it, then he raised it and struck at the opaque windscreen. The plastic filling in the glass sandwich could not withstand his assault and he made a hole big enough for a man to climb through.

O’Hara said, ‘Til go through — I think I know what I’ll find. Don’t either of you go back there — not yet. And call through and tell anyone who can move to come up front.”

He squeezed through the narrow gap and was astonished to find that the nose of the Dakota was missing. He twisted and crawled out on to the top of the fuselage and looked aft. The tail and one wing were hanging in space over the valley where the runway ended. The whole aircraft was delicately balanced and even as he looked the tail tipped a little and there was a ripping sound from the cockpit.

He twisted on to his stomach and wriggled so that he could look into the cockpit, his head upside-down. “We’re in a jam,” he said to Forester. “We’re hanging over a two-hundred foot drop, and the only thing that’s keeping the whole bloody aeroplane from tipping over is that bit of rock there.” He indicated the rock projection driven into the side of the cockpit.

He said. “If anyone goes back there the extra weight might send us over because we’re balanced just like a see-saw.”

Forester turned his head and bawled. “Anyone who can move, come up here.”

There was a movement and Willis staggered through the door, his head bloody. Forester shouted, “Anyone else?”

Senora Montes called urgently. “Please help my uncle — oh, please.”

Rohde drew Willis out of the way and stepped through the door. Forester said sharply. “Don’t go in too far.”

Rohde did not even look at him, but bent to pick up Montes who was lying by the door. He half carried, half dragged him into the cockpit and Senorita Montes followed.

Forester looked up at O’Hara. “It’s getting crowded in here; I think we’d better start getting people outside.”

“We’ll get them on top first,” said O’Hara. “The more weight we have at this end, the better. Let the girl come first”

She shook her head. “My uncle first.”

“For God’s sake, he’s unconscious,” said Forester. “You go out — I’ll look after him.”

She shook her head stubbornly and O’Hara broke in impatiently. “All right, Willis, come on up here; let’s not waste time.” His head ached and he was panting in the thin air; he was not inclined to waste time over silly girls.

He helped Willis through the smashed windscreen and saw him settle on top of the fuselage. When he looked into the cockpit again it was evident that the girl had changed her mind. Rohde was talking quietly but emphatically to her and she crossed over and O’Hara helped her out.

Armstrong came next, having made his own way to the cockpit. He said, “It’s a bloody shambles back there. I think the old man in the back seat is dead and his wife is pretty badly hurt. I don’t think it’s safe to move her.”

“What about Peabody?”

“The luggage was thrown forward on to both of us. He’s half buried under it. I tried to get him free but I couldn’t.”

O’Hara passed this on to Forester. Rohde was kneeling by Montes, trying to bring him round. Forester hesitated, then said. “Now we’ve got some weight at this end it might be safe for me to go back.”

O’Hara said, “Tread lightly.”

Forester gave a mirthless grin and went back through the door. He looked at Miss Ponsky. She was sitting rigid, her arms clutched tightly about her, her eyes staring unblinkingly at nothing. He ignored her and began to heave suitcases from the top of Peabody, being careful to stow them in the front seats. Peabody stirred and Forester shook him into consciousness and as soon as he seemed to be able to understand, said. “Go into the cockpit — the cockpit, you understand.”

Peabody nodded blearily and Forester stepped a little farther aft. “Christ Almighty!” he whispered, shocked at what he saw.

Coughlin was a bloody pulp. The cargo had shifted in the smash and had come forward, crushing the two back seats. Mrs. Coughlin was still alive but both her legs had been cut off just below the knee. It was only because she had been leaning forward to comfort Miss Ponsky that she hadn’t been killed like her husband.

Forester felt something touch his back and turned. It was Peabody moving aft. “I said the cockpit, you damned fool,” shouted Forester.

“I wanna get outa here,” mumbled Peabody. “I wanna get out. The door’s back there.”

Forester wasted no time in argument. Abruptly he jabbed at Peabody’s stomach and then brought his clenched fists down at the nape of his neck as he bent over gasping, knocking him cold. He dragged him forward to the door and said to Rohde. “Take care of this fool. If he causes trouble, knock him on the head.”

He went back and took Miss Ponsky by the arm. “Come,” he said gently.

She rose and followed him like a somnambulist and he led her right into the cockpit and delivered her to O’Hara. Monies was now conscious and would be ready to move soon.

As soon as O’Hara reappeared Forester said. “I don’t think the old lady back there will make it.”

“Get her out,” said O’Hara tightly. “For God’s sake, get her out.”

So Forester went back. He didn’t know whether Mrs. Coughlin was alive or dead; her body was still warm, however, so he picked her up in his arms. Blood was still spurting from her shattered shins, and when he stepped into the cockpit Rohde drew in his breath with a hiss. “On the seat,” he said. “She needs tourniquets now — immediately.”

He took off his jacket and then his shirt and began to rip the shirt into strips, saying to Forester curtly. “Get the old man out.”

Forester and O’Hara helped Monies through the windscreen and then Forester turned and regarded Rohde, noting the goose-pimples on his back. “Clothing,” he said to O’Hara. “We’ll need warm clothing. It’ll be bad up here by nightfall.”

“Hell!” said O’Hara. “That’s adding to the risk. I don’t “

“He is right,” said Rohde without turning his head. “If we do not have clothing we will all be dead by morning.”

“All right,” said O’Hara. “Are you willing to take the risk?”

“I’ll chance it,” said Forester.

“I’ll get these people on the ground first,” said O’Hara. “But while you’re at it get the maps. There are some air charts of the area in that pocket next to my seat.”

Rohde grunted. “I’ll get those.”

O’Hara got the people from the top of the fuselage to the ground and Forester began to bring suitcases into the cockpit. Unceremoniously he heaved Peabody through the windscreen and equally carelessly O’Hara dropped him to the ground, where he lay sprawling. Then Rohde handed through the unconscious Mrs. Coughlin and O’Hara was surprised at her lightness. Rohde climbed out and, taking her in his arms, jumped to the ground, cushioning the shock for her.

Forester began to hand out suitcases and O’Hara tossed them indiscriminately. Some burst open, but most survived the fall intact.

The Dakota lurched.

“Forester,” yelled O’Hara. “Come out.”

“There’s still some more.”

“Get out, you idiot,” O’Hara bawled. “She’s going.”

He grabbed Forester’s arms and hauled him out bodily and let him go thumping to the ground. Then he jumped himself and, as he did so, the nose rose straight into the air and the plane slid over the edge of the cliff with a grinding noise and in a cloud of dust. It crashed down two hundred feet and there was a long dying rumble and then silence.

O’Hara looked at the silent people about him, then turned his eyes to the harsh and savage mountains which surrounded them. He shivered with cold as he felt the keen wind which blew from the snowfields, and then shivered for a different reason as he locked eyes with Forester. They both knew that the odds against survival were heavy and that it was probable that the escape from the Dakota was merely the prelude to a more protracted death.

viii

“Now, let’s hear all this from the beginning,” said Forester.

They had moved into the nearest of the cabins. It proved bare but weatherproof, and there was a fireplace in which Armstrong had made a fire, using wood which Willis had brought from another cabin. Monies was lying in a corner being looked after by his niece, and Peabody was nursing a hangover and looking daggers at Forester.

Miss Ponsky had recovered remarkably from the rigidity of fright. When she had been dropped to the ground she had collapsed, digging her fingers into the frozen gravel in an ecstasy of relief. O’Hara judged she would never have the guts to enter an aeroplane ever again in her life. But now she was showing remarkable aptitude for sick nursing, helping Rohde to care for Mrs. Coughlin.

Now there was a character, thought O’Hara; Rohde was a man of unsuspected depths. Although he was not a medical man, he had a good working knowledge of practical medicine which was now invaluable. O’Hara had immediately turned to Willis for help with Mrs. Coughlin, but Willis had said. “Sorry, I’m a physicist — not a physician.”

“Dr. Armstrong?” O’Hara had appealed.

Regretfully Armstrong had also shaken his head. “I’m a historian.”

So Rohde had taken over — the non-doctor with the medical background — and the man with the gun.

, O’Hara turned his attention to Forester. “All right,” he said. “This is the way it was.”

He told everything that had happened, right back from the take-off in San Croce, dredging from his memory everything Grivas had said. “I think he went off his head,” he concluded.

Forester frowned. “No, it was planned,” he contradicted. “And lunacy isn’t planned. Grivas knew this airstrip and he knew the course to take. You say be was at San Croce airfield when the Samair plane was grounded?”

“That’s right — I thought it was a bit odd at the time. I mean, it was out of character for Grivas to be haunting the field in the middle of the night — he wasn’t that keen on his job.”

“It sounds as though he knew the Samair Boeing was going to have engine trouble,” commented Willis.

Forester looked up quickly and Willis said. “It’s the only logical answer — he didn’t just steal a plane, he stole the contents; and the contents of the plane were people from the Boeing. O’Hara says those big crates contain ordinary mining machinery and I doubt if Grivas would want that.”

“That implies sabotage of the Boeing,” said Forester. “If Grivas was expecting the Boeing to land at San Croce, it also implies a sizeable organisation behind him.”

“We know that already,” said O’Hara. “Grivas was expecting a reception committee here. He said’ They’ll be here any minute.’ But where are they’)”

“And who are they?” asked Forester.

O’Hara thought of something else Grivas had said: “… they’ll kill the lot of you.” He kept quiet about that and asked instead. “Remember the last thing he said — ‘ Vivaca’ ? It doesn’t make sense to me. It sounds vaguely Spanish, but it’s no word I know.”

“My Spanish is good,” said Forester deliberately. “There’s no such word.” He slapped the side of his leg irritably. “I’d give a lot to know what’s been going on and who’s responsible for all this,”

A weak voice came from across the room. “I fear, gentlemen, that in a way I am responsible.”

Everyone in the room, with the exception of Mrs. Coughlin, turned to look at Senor Montes.

Chapter II

Montes looked ill. He was worse than he had been in the air. His chest heaved violently as he sucked in the thin air and he had a ghastly pallor. As he opened his mouth to speak again the girl said. “Hush, tio, be quiet. I will tell them.” She turned and looked across the cabins at O’Hara and Forester. “My uncle’s name is not Montes,” she said levelly. “It is Aguillar.” She said it as though it was an explanation, entire and complete in itself.

There was a moment of blank silence, then O’Hara snapped his fingers and said softly. “By God, the old eagle himself.” He stared at the sick man.

“Yes, Senor O’Hara,” whispered Aguillar. “But a crippled eagle, I am afraid.”

“Say, what the hell is this?” grumbled Peabody. “What’s so special about him?”

Willis gave Peabody a look of dislike and got to his feet. “I wouldn’t have put it that way myself,” he said. “Bat I could bear to know more.”

O’Hara said. “Senor Aguillar was possibly the best president this country ever had until the army took over five years ago. He got out of the country just one jump ahead of a firing squad.”

“General Lopez always was a hasty man,” agreed Aguillar with a weak smile.

“You mean the government arranged all this — this jam we’re in now — just to get you?” Willis’s voice was shrill with incredulity.

Aguillar shook his head and started to speak, but the girl said. “No, you must be quiet.” She looked at O’Hara appealingly. “Do not question him now, senior. Can’t you see he is ill?”

“Can you speak for your uncle?” asked Forester gently.

She looked at the old man and he nodded. “What is it you want to know?” she asked.

“What is your uncle doing back in Cordillera?”

“We have come to bring back good government to our country,” she said. “We have come to throw out Lopez.”

O’Hara gave a short laugh. “To throw out Lopez,” he said flatly. “Just like that. An old man and a girl are going to throw out a man with an army at his back.” He shook his head disbelievingly.

The girl flared up. “What do you know about it; you are a foreigner — you know nothing. Lopez is finished — everyone in Cordillera knows it, even Lopez himself. He has been too greedy, too corrupt, and the country is sick of him.”

Forester rubbed his chin’ reflectively. “She could be right,” he said. “It would take just a puff of wind to blow Lopez over right now. He’s run this country right into the ground in the last five years — just about milked it dry and salted enough money away in Swiss banks to last a couple of lifetimes. I don’t think he’d risk losing cut now if it came to a showdown — if someone pushed hard enough he’d fold up and get out. I think he’d take wealth and comfort instead of power and the chance of being shot by some gun-happy student with a grievance.”

“Lopez has bankrupted Cordillera,” the girl said. She held up her head proudly. “But when my uncle appears in Santillana the people will rise, and that will be the end of Lopez.”

“It could work,” agreed Forester. “Your uncle was well liked. I suppose you’ve prepared the ground in advance.”

She nodded. “The Democratic Committee of Action has made all the arrangements. All that remains is for my uncle to appear in Santillana.”

“He may not get there,” said O’Hara. “Someone is trying to stop him, and if it isn’t Lopez, then who the hell is it?”

“The comunistas,” the girl spat out with loathing in her voice. “They cannot afford to let my uncle get into power again. They want Cordillera for their own.”

Forester said. “It figures. Lopez is a dead duck, come what may; so it’s Aguillar versus the communists with Cordillera as the stake.”

“They are not quite ready,” the girl said. “They do not have enough support among the people. During the last two years they have been infiltrating the government very cleverly and if they had their way the people would wake up one morning to find Lopez gone, leaving a communist government to take his place.”

“Swapping one dictatorship for another,” said Forester. “Very clever.”

“But they are not yet ready to get rid of Lopez,” she said. “My uncle would spoil their plans — he would get rid of Lopez and the government, too. He would hold elections for the first time in nine years. So the communists are trying to stop him.”

“And you think Grivas was a communist?” queried O’Hara.

Forester snapped his fingers. “Of course he was. That explains his last words. He was a communist, all right — Latin-American blend; when he said’ vivaca’ he was trying to say’ Viva Castro. “His voice hardened. “And we can expect his buddies along any minute.”

“We must leave here quickly,” said the girl. “They must not find my uncle,”

O’Hara suddenly swung round and regarded Rohde, who bad remained conspicuously silent. He said. “What do you import, Senor Rohde?”

“It is all right, Senor O’Hara,” said Aguillar weakly. “Miguel is my secretary.”

Forester looked at Rohde. “More like your bodyguard.”

Aguillar flapped his hand limply as though the distinction was of no consequence, and Forester said. “What put you on to him, O’Hara?”

“I don’t like men who carry guns,” said O’Hara shortly. “Especially men who could be communist.” He looked around the cabin. “All right, are there any more jokers in the pack? What about you, Forester? You seem to know a hell of a lot about local politics for an American businessman.”

“Don’t be a damn fool,” said Forester. “If I didn’t take an interest in local politics my corporation would fire me. Having the right kind of government is important to us, and we sure as hell don’t want a commie set-up in Cordillera.”

He took out his wallet and extracted a business card which he handed to O’Hara. It informed him that Raymond Forester was the South American sales manager for the Fairfield Machine Tool Corporation.

O’Hara gave it back to him. “Was Grivas the only communist aboard?” he said. “That’s what I’m getting at. When we were coming in to land, did any of the passengers take any special precautions for their safety?”

Forester thought about it, then shook his head. “Everyone seemed to be taken by surprise — I don’t think any of us knew just what was happening.” He looked at O’Hara with respect. “In the circumstances that was a good question to ask.”

“Well, I’m not a communist,” said Miss Ponsky sharply. “The very idea!”

O’Hara smiled. “My apologies, Miss Ponsky,” he said politely.

Rohde had been tending to Mrs. Coughlin; now he stood up. “This lady is dying,” he said. “She has lost much blood and she is in shock. And she has the soroche — the mountain-sickness. If she does not get oxygen she will surely die.” His black eyes switched to Aguillar, who seemed to have fallen asleep. “The Senor also must have oxygen — he’s in grave danger.” He looked at them. “We must go down the mountain. To stay at this height is very dangerous.”

O’Hara was conscious of a vicious headache and the fact that his heart was thumping rapidly. He had been long enough in the country to have heard of soroche and its effects. The lower air pressure on the mountain heights meant less oxygen, the respiratory rate went up and so did the heart-beat rate, pumping the blood faster. It killed a weak constitution.

He said slowly, “There were oxygen cylinders in the plane — maybe they’re not busted.”

“Good,” said Rohde. “We will look, you and I. It would be better not to move this lady if possible. But if we do not find the oxygen, then we must go down the mountain.”

Forester said, “We must keep a fire going — the rest of us will look for wood.” He paused. “Bring some petrol from the plane — we may need it.”

“All right,” said O’Hara.

“Come on,” said Forester to Peabody. “Let’s move.”

Peabody lay where he was, gasping. “I’m beat,” he said. “And my head’s killing me.”

“It’s just a hangover,” said Forester callously. “Get on your feet, man.”

Rohde put his hand on Forester’s arm. “Soroche,” he said warningly. “He will not be able to do much. Come, Senor.”

O’Hara followed Rohde from the cabin and shivered in the biting air. He looked around. The airstrip was built on the only piece of level ground in the vicinity; all else was steeply shelving mountainside, and all around were the pinnacles of the high Andes, clear-cut in the cold and crystal air. They soared skyward, blindingly white against the blue where the snows lay on their flanks, and where the slope was too steep for the snow to stay was the dark grey of the rock.

It was cold, desolate and utterly lifeless. There was no restful green of vegetation, or the flick of a bird’s wing — just black, white and the blue of the sky, a hard, dark metallic blue as alien as the landscape.

O’Hara pulled his jacket closer about him and looked at the other huts. “What is this place?”

“It is a mine,” said Rohde. “Copper and zinc — the tunnels are over there.” He pointed to a cliff face at the end of the airstrip and O’Hara saw the dark mouths of several tunnels driven into the cliff face. Rohde shook his head. “But it is too high to work — they should never have tried. No man can work well at this height; not even our mountain indios.”

“You know this place then?”

“I know these mountains well,” said Rohde. “I was born set far from here.”

They trudged along the airstrip and before they had gone a hundred yards O’Hara felt exhausted. His head ached and he felt nauseated. He sucked the thin air into his lungs and his chest heaved.

Rohde stopped and said. “You must not force your breathing.”

“What else can I do?” asked O’Hara, panting. “I’ve got to get enough air.”

“Breathe naturally, without effort,” said Rohde. “You will get enough air. But if you force your breathing you will wash all the carbon dioxide from your lungs, and that will upset the acid base of your blood and you will get muscle cramps. And that is very bad.”

O’Hara moderated his breathing and said, “You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I studied medicine once,” said Rohde briefly.

They reached the far end of the strip and looked over the edge of the cliff. The Dakota was pretty well smashed up; the port wing had broken off, as had the entire tail section. Rohde studied the terrain. “We need not climb down the cliff; it will be easier to go round.”

It took them a long time to get to the plane and when they got there they found only one oxygen cylinder intact. It was difficult to get it free and out of the aircraft, but they managed it after chopping away a part of the fuselage with the axe that O’Hara found on the floor of the cockpit.

The gauge showed that the cylinder was only a third full and O’Hara cursed Filson and his cheese-paring, but Rohde seemed satisfied. “It will be enough,” he said. “We can stay in the hut tonight.”’

“What happens if these communists turn up?” asked O’Hara.

Rohde seemed unperturbed. “Then we will defend ourselves,” he said equably. “One thing at a time, Senor O’Hara.”

“Grivas seemed to think they were already here,” said O’Hara. “I wonder what held them up?”

Rohde shrugged. “Does it matter?”

They could not manhandle the oxygen cylinder back to the huts without help, so Rohde went back, taking with him some mouthpieces and a bottle of petrol tapped from a wing tank. O’Hara searched the fuselage, looking for anything that might be of value, particularly food. That, he thought, might turn out to be a major problem. All he found was half a slab of milk chocolate in Grivas’s seat pocket.

Rohde came back with Forester, Willis and Armstrong and they took it in turns carrying the oxygen cylinder, two by two. It was very hard work and they could only manage to move it twenty yards at a time. O’Hara estimated that back in San Croce he could have picked it up and carried it a mile, but the altitude seemed to have sucked all the strength from their muscles and they could work only a few minutes at a time before they collapsed in exhaustion.

When they got it to the hut they found that Miss Ponsky was feeding the fire with wood from a door of one of the other huts that Willis and Armstrong had torn down and smashed up laboriously with rocks. Willis was particularly glad to see the axe. “It’ll be easier now,” he said.

Rohde administered oxygen to Mrs. Coughlin and Aguillar. She remained unconscious, but it made a startling difference to the old man. As the colour came back to his cheeks his niece smiled for the first time since the crash.

O’Hara sat before the fire, feeling the warmth soak into him, and produced his air charts. He spread the relevant chart on the floor and pinpointed a position with a pencilled cross. “That’s where we were when we changed course,” he said. “We flew on a true course of one-eighty-four for a shade over five minutes.” He drew a line on the chart. “We were flying at a little over two hundred knots — say, two hundred and forty miles an hour. That’s about twenty miles — so that puts us about — here.” He made another cross.

Forester looked over his shoulder. “The airstrip isn’t marked on the map,” he said.

“Rohde said it was abandoned,” said O’Hara.

Rohde Came over and looked at the map and nodded. “You are right,” he said. “That is where we are. The road down the mountain leads to the refinery. That also is abandoned, but I think some indios live there still.”

“How far is that?” asked Forester.

“About forty kilometres,” said Rohde.

“Twenty-five miles,” translated Forester. “That’s a hell of a long way in these conditions.”

“It will not be very bad,” said Rohde. He put his finger on the map. “When we get to this valley where the river runs we will be nearly five thousand feet lower and we will breathe more easily. That is about sixteen kilometres by the road.”

“We’ll start early tommorow,” said O’Hara.

Rohde agreed. “If we had no oxygen I would have said go now. But it would be better to stay in the shelter of this hut tonight.”

“What about Mrs. Coughlin?” said O’Hara quietly. “Can we move her?”

“We will have to move her,” said Rohde positively. “She cannot live at this altitude.”

“We’ll rig together some kind of stretcher,” said Forester. , “We can make a sling out of clothing and poles — or maybe use a door.”

O’Hara looked across to where Mrs. Coughlin was breathing stertorously, closely watched by Miss Ponsky. His voice was harsh. “I’d rather that bastard Grivas was still alive if -.hat would give her back her legs,” he said.

ii

Mrs. Coughlin died during the night without regaining consciousness. They found her in the morning cold and stiff. Miss Ponsky was in tears. “I should have stayed awake,” she sniffled. “I couldn’t sleep most of the night, and then I had to drop off.”

Rohde shook his head gravely. “She would have died,” he said. “We could not do anything for her — none of us.”

Forester, O’Hara and Peabody scratched out a shallow grave. Peabody seemed better and O’Hara thought that maybe Forester had been right when he said that Peabody was only suffering from a hangover. However, he had to be prodded into helping to dig the grave.

It seemed that everyone had had a bad night, no one sleeping very well. Rohde said that it was another symptom of soroche and the sooner they got to a lower altitude the better. O’Hara still had a splitting headache and heartily concurred.

The oxygen cylinder was empty.

O’Hara tapped the gauge with his finger but the needle stubbornly remained at zero. He opened the cock and bent his head to listen but there was no sound from the valve. He had heard the gentle hiss of oxygen several times during the night and had assumed that Rohde had been tending to Mrs. Coughlin or Aguillar.

He beckoned to Rohde. “Did you use all the oxygen last night?”

Rohde looked incredulously at the gauge. “I was saving some for to-day,” he said. “Senor Aguillar needs it.”

O’Hara bit his lip and looked across to where Peabody sat. “I thought he looked pretty chipper this morning.”

Rohde growled something under his breath and took a step forward, but O’Hara caught his arm. “It can’t be proved,” he said. “I could be wrong. And anyway, we don’t want any rows right here. Let’s get down this mountain.” He kicked the cylinder and it clanged emptily. “At least we won’t have to carry this.”

He remembered the chocolate and brought it out. There were eight small squares to be divided between ten of them, so he, Rohde and Forester did without and Aguillar had two pieces. O’Hara thought that he must have had three because the girl did not appear to eat her ration.

Armstrong and Willis appeared to work well as a team. Using the axe, they had ripped some timber from one of the huts and made a rough stretcher by pushing lengths of wood through the sleeves of two overcoats. That was for Aguillar, who could not walk.

They put on all the clothes they could and left the rest in suitcases. Forester gave O’Hara a bulky overcoat “Don’t mess it about if you can help it,” he said. “That’s vicuna — it cost a lot of dough.” He grinned. “The boss’s wife asked me to get it this trip; it’s the old man’s birthday soon.”

Peabody grumbled when he had to leave his luggage and grumbled more when O’Hara assigned him to a stretcher-carrying stint. O’Hara resisted taking a poke at him; for one thing he did not want open trouble, and for another he did not know whether he had the strength to do any damage. At the moment it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other.

So they left the huts and went down the road, turning their backs on the high peaks. The road was merely a rough track cut out of the mountainside. It wound down in a series of hairpin bends and Willis pointed out where blasting had been done on the corners. It was just wide enough to take a single vehicle but, from time to time, they came across a wide part where two trucks could pass.

O’Hara asked Rohde, “Did they intend to truck all the ore from the mine?”

“They would have built a telfer,” said Rohde. “An endless rope with buckets. But they were still proving the nine. Petrol engines do not work well up here — they need superchargers.” He stopped suddenly and stared at the ground.

In a patch of snow was the track of a tyre.

“Someone’s been up here lately,” observed O’Hara. “Supercharged or not. But I knew that.”

“How?” Rohde demanded.

“The airstrip had been cleared of snow.”

Rohde patted his breast and moved away without saying anything. O’Hara remembered the pistol and wondered what would happen if they came up against opposition.

Although the path was downhill and the going comparatively good, it was only possible to carry the stretcher a hundred yards at a time. Forester organised relays, and as one set of carriers collapsed exhaustedly another took over. Aguillar was in a comatose condition and the girl walked next to the stretcher, anxiously watching him. After a mile they stopped for a rest and O’Hara said to Rohde. “I’ve got a flask of spirits. I’ve been saving it for when things really get tough. Do you think it would help the old man?”

“Let me have it,” said Rohde.

O’Hara took the flask from his hip and gave it to Rohde, who took off the cap and sniffed the contents. “Aguardiente,” he said. “Not the best drink but it will do.” He looked at O’Hara curiously. “Do you drink this?”

“I’m a poor man,” said O’Hara defensively.

Rohde smiled. “When I was a student I also was poor. I also drank aguardiente. But I do not recommend too much.” He looked across at Aguillar. “I think we save this for later.” He recapped the flask and handed it back to O’Hara. As O’Hara was replacing it in his pocket he saw Peabody staring at him. He smiled back pleasantly.

After a rest of half an hour they started off again. O’Hara in the lead, looked back and thought they looked like a bunch of war refugees. Willis and Armstrong were stumbling along with the stretcher, the girl keeping pace alongside; Miss Ponsky was sticking close to Rohde, chatting as though on a Sunday afternoon walk, despite her shortness of breath, and Forester was in the rear with Peabody shambling beside him.

After the third stop O’Hara found that things were going better. His step felt lighter and his breathing eased, although the headache stayed with him. The stretcher-bearers found that they could carry for longer periods, and Aguillar had come round and was taking notice.

O’Hara mentioned this to Rohde, who pointed at the steep slopes about them. “We are losing a lot of height,” he said. “It will get better now.”

After the fourth halt O’Hara and Forester were carrying the stretcher. Aguillar apologised in a weak voice for the inconvenience he was causing, but O’Hara forbore to answer — he needed all his breath for the job. Things weren’t that much better.

Forester suddenly stopped and O’Hara thankfully laid down the stretcher. His legs felt rubbery and the breath rasped in his throat. He grinned at Forester, who was beating his hands against his chest. “Never mind,” he said. “It should be warmer down in the valley.”

Forester blew on his fingers. “I hope so.” He looked up at O’Hara. “You’re a pretty good pilot,” he said. “I’ve done some flying in my time, but I don’t think I could do what you did yesterday.”

“You might if you had a pistol at your head,” said O’Hara with a grimace. “Anyway, I couldn’t leave it to Grivas — he’d have killed the lot of us, starting with me first.”

He looted past Forester and saw Rohde coming back up the road at a stumbling run, his gun in his hand. “Something’s happening.”

He went forward to meet Rohde, who gasped, his chest heaving. “There are huts here — I had forgotten them.”

O’Hara looked at the gun. “Do you need that?”

Rohde gave a stark smile. “It is possible, senor.” He waved casually down the road with the pistol. “I think we should be careful. I think we should look first before doing anything. You, me, and Senor Forester.”

“I think so too,” said Forester. “Grivas said his pals would be around and this seems a likely place to meet them.”

“All right,” said O’Hara, and looked about. There was no cover on the road but there was a jumble of rocks a little way back. “I think everyone else had better stick behind that lot,” he said. “If anything does break, there’s no point in being caught in the open.”

They went back to shelter behind the rocks and O’Hara sold everyone what was happening. He ended by saying. “If there’s shooting you don’t do a damned thing’ — you freeze md stay put. Now I know we’re not an army but we’re likely to come under fire all the same — so I’m naming Doctor Willis as second-in-command. If anything happens to us you take your orders from him.” Willis nodded.

Aguillar’s niece was talking to Rohde, and as O’Hara went to join Forester she touched him on the arm. “Senor.”

He looked down at her. “Yes, senorita.”

“Please be careful, you and Senor Forester. I would not want anything to happen to you because of us.”

“I’ll be careful,” said O’Hara. “Tell me, is your name the same as your uncle’s?”

“I am Benedetta Aguillar,” she said.

He nodded. “I’m Tim O’Hara. I’ll be careful.”

He joined the other two and they walked down the road to the bend. Rohde said. “These huts were where the miners lived. This is just about as high as a man can live permanently — a man who is acclimatised such as our mountain indios. I think we should leave the road here and approach from the side. If Grivas did have friends, here is where we will find them.”

They took to the mountainside and came upon the camp from the top. A level place had been roughly bulldozed out of the side of the mountain and there were about a dozen timber-built huts, very much like the huts by the airstrip.

“This is no good,” said Forester. “We’ll have to go over this miniature cliff before we can get at them.”

“There’s no smoke,” O’Hara pointed out.

“Maybe that means something — maybe it doesn’t,” said Forester. “I think that Rohde and I will go round and come up from the bottom. If anything happens, maybe you can cause a diversion from up here.”

“What do I do?” asked O’Hara. “Throw stones?”

Forester shook with silent laughter. He pointed down the slope to beyond the camp. “We’ll come out about there. You can see us from here but we’ll be out of sight of anyone in the camp. If all’s clear you can give us the signal to come up.” He looked at Rohde, who nodded.

Forester and Rohde left quietly and O’Hara lay on his belly, looking down at the camp. He did not think there was anyone there. It was less than five miles up to the airstrip by the road and there was nothing to stop anybody going up there. If Grivas’s confederates were anywhere, it was not likely that they would be at this camp — but it was as well to make sure. He scanned the huts but saw no sign of movement.

Presently he saw Forester wave from the side of the rock he had indicated and he waved back. Rohde went up first, in a wide arc to come upon the camp at an angle. Then Forester moved forward in the peculiar scuttling, zigzagging run of the experienced soldier who expects to be shot at. O’Hara wondered about Forester; the man had said he could fly an aeroplane and now he was behaving like a trained infantryman. He had an eye for ground, too, and was obviously accustomed to command.

Forester disappeared behind one of the huts and then Rohde came into sight at the far end of the camp, moving warily with his gun in his hand. He too disappeared, and O’Hara felt tension. He waited for what seemed a very long time, then Forester walked out from behind the nearest hut, moving quite unconcernedly. “You can come down,” he called. “There’s no one here.”

O’Hara let out his breath with a rush and stood up. “I’ll go back and get the rest of the people down here,” he shouted, and Forester waved in assent.

O’Hara went back up the road, collected the party and took them down to the camp. Forester and Rohde were waiting in the main. “street” and Forester called out. “We’ve struck it lucky; there’s a lot of food here.”

Suddenly O’Hara realised that he hadn’t eaten for a day and a half. He did not feel particularly hungry, but he knew that if he did not eat he could not last out much longer — and neither could any of the others. To have food would make a lot of difference on the next leg of the journey.

Forester said. “Most of the huts are empty, but three of them are fitted out as living quarters complete with kerosene heaters.”

O’Hara looked down at the ground which was criss-crossed with tyre tracks. “There’s something funny going on,” he said. “Rohde told me that the mine has been abandoned for a long time, yet there’s all these signs of life and no one around. What the hell’s going on?”

Forester shrugged. “Maybe the commie organisation is slipping,” he said. “The Latins have never been noted for good planning. Maybe someone’s put a spoke in their wheel.”

“Maybe,” said O’Hara. “We might as well take advantage of it. What do you think we should do now — how long should we stay here?”

Forester looked at the group entering one of the huts, then up at the sky. “We’re pretty beat,” he said. “Maybe we ought to stay here until tommorow. It’ll take us a while to get fed and it’ll be late before we can move out. We ought to stay here tonight and keep warm.”

“We’ll consult Rohde,” said O’Hara. “He’s the expert on mountains and altitude.”

The huts were well fitted. There were paraffin stoves, bunks, plenty of blankets and a large assortment of canned foods. On the table in one of the huts there were the remnants of a meal, the plates dirty and unwashed and frozen dregs of coffee in the bottoms of tin mugs. O’Hara felt the thickness of the ice and it cracked beneath the pressure of his finger.

“They haven’t been gone long,” he said. “If the hut was unheated this stuff would have frozen to the bottom.” He passed the mug to Rohde. “What do you think?”

Rohde looked at the ice closely. “If they turned off the heaters when they left, the hut would stay warm for a while,” he said. He tested the ice and thought deeply. “I would say two days,” he said finally.

“Say yesterday morning,” suggested O’Hara. “That would be about the time we took off from San Croce.”

Forester groaned in exasperation. “It doesn’t make sense. Why did they go to all this trouble, make all these preparations, and then clear out? One thing’s sure: Grivas expected a reception committee — and where the hell is it?”

O’Hara said to Rohde, “We are thinking of staying here tonight. What do you think?”

“It is better here than at the mine,” said Rohde. “We have lost a lot of height. I would say that we are at an altitude of about four thousand metres here — or maybe a little more. That will not harm us for one night; it will be better to stay here in shelter than to stay in the open tonight, even if it is lower down the mountain.” He contracted his brows. “But I suggest we keep a watch.”

Forester nodded. “We’ll take it in turns.”

Miss Ponsky and Benedetta were busy on the pressure stoves making hot soup. Armstrong had already got the heater going and Willis was sorting out cans of food. He called O’Hara over. “I thought we’d better take something with us when we leave,” he said. “It might come in useful.”

“A good idea,” said O’Hara.

Willis grinned. “That’s all very well, but I can’t read Spanish. I have to go by the pictures on the labels. Someone had better check on these when I’ve got them sorted out.”

Forester and Rohde went on down the road to pick a good spot for a sentry, and when Forester came back he said, “Rohde’s taking the first watch. We’ve got a good place where we can see bits of road a good two miles away. And if they come up at night they’re sure to have their lights on.”

He looked at his watch. “We’ve got six able-bodied men, so if we leave here early tommorow, that means two-hour watches. That’s not too bad — it gives us all enough sleep.”

After they had eaten Benedetta took some food down to Rohde and O’Hara found himself next to Armstrong. “You said you were a historian. I suppose you’re over here to check up on the Incas,” he said.

“Oh, no,” said Armstrong. “They’re not my line of country at all. My line is medieval history.”

“Oh,” said O’Hara blankly.

“I don’t know anything about the Incas and I don’t particularly want to,” said Armstrong frankly. He smiled gently. “For the past ten years I’ve never had a real holiday. I’d go on holiday like a normal man — perhaps to France or Italy — and then I’d see something interesting. I’d do a bit of investigating — and before I’d know it I’d be hard at work.”

He produced a pipe and peered dubiously into his tobacco pouch. “This year I decided to come to South America for a holiday. All there is here is pre-European and modern history — no medieval history at all. Clever of me, wasn’t it?”

O’Hara smiled, suspecting that Armstrong was indulging in a bit of gentle leg-pulling. “And what’s your line, Doctor Willis?” he asked.

“I’m a physicist,” said Willis. “I’m interested in cosmic rays at high altitudes. I’m not getting very far with it, though.”

They were certainly a mixed lot, thought O’Hara, looking across at Miss Ponsky as she talked animatedly to Aguillar. Now there was a sight — a New England spinster schoolmarm lecturing a statesman. She would certainly have plenty to tell her pupils when she arrived back at the little schoolhouse.

“What was this place, anyway?” asked Willis.

“Living quarters for the mine up on top,” said O’Hara. “That’s what Rohde tells me.”

Willis nodded. “They had their workshops down here, too,” he said. “All the machinery has gone, of course, but there are still a few bits and pieces left.” He shivered. “I can’t say I’d like to work in a place like this.”

O’Hara looked about the hut. “Neither would I.” He caught sight of an electric conduit tube running down a wall. ‘Where did their electricity supply come from, I wonder?”

They had their own plant; there’s the remains of it out back. The generator has gone — they must have salvaged it when the mine closed down. They scavenged most everything, I guess; there’s precious little left.”

Armstrong drew the last of the smoke from his failing pipe with a disconsolate gurgle. “Well, that’s the last of the tobacco until we get back to civilisation,” he said as he knocked out the bottle. “Tell me, Captain; what are you doing in this part of the world?”

“Oh, I fly aeroplanes from anywhere to anywhere,” said O’Hara. Not any more I don’t, he thought. As far as Filson was concerned, he was finished. Filson would never forgive a pilot who wrote off one of his aircraft, no matter what the reason. I’ve lost my job, he thought. It was a lousy job but it had kept him going, and now he’d lost it.

The girl came back and he crossed over to her. “Anything doing down the road?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Miguel says everything a quiet.”

“He’s quite a character,” said O’Hara. “He certainly knows a lot about these mountains — and he knows a bit about medicine too.”

“He was born near here,” Benedetta said. “And he was a medical student until ” She stopped.

“Until what?” prompted O’Hara.

“Until the revolution.” She looked at her hands. “All his family were killed — that is why he hates Lopez. That is why he works with my uncle — he knows that my uncle will ruin Lopez.”

“I thought he had a chip on his shoulder,” said O’Hara.

She sighed. “It is a great pity about Miguel; he was going to dp so much. He was very interested in the soroche, you know; he intended to study it as soon as he had taken his degree. But when the revolution came he had to leave the country and he had no money so he could not continue his studies. He worked in the Argentine for a while, and then be met my uncle. He saved my uncle’s life.”

“Oh?” O’Hara raised his eyebrows.

“In the beginning Lopez knew that he was not safe while my uncle was alive. He knew that my uncle would organise an opposition — underground, you know. So wherever my uncle went he was in danger from the murderers hired by Lopez — even in the Argentine. There were several attempts to kill him, and it was one of these times that Miguel saved his life.”

O’Hara said. “Your uncle must have felt like another Trotsky. Joe Stalin had him bumped off in Mexico.”

“That is right,” she said with a grimace of distaste. “But they were communists, both of them. Anyway, Miguel stayed with us after that. He said that all he wanted was food to eat and a bed to sleep in, and he would help my uncle come back to Cordillera. And here we are.”

Yes, thought O’Hara; marooned up a bloody mountain with God knows what waiting at the bottom.

Presently, Armstrong went out to relieve Rohde. Miss Ponsky came across to talk to O’Hara. “I’m sorry I behaved so stupidly in the airplane,” she said crossly. “I don’t know what came over me.”

O’Hara thought there was no need to apologise for being half frightened to death; he had been bloody scared himself. But he couldn’t say that — he couldn’t even mention the word fern-to her. That would be unforgivable; no one likes to be reminded of a lapse of that nature — not even a maiden lady getting on in years. He smiled and said diplomatically. “Not everyone would have come through an experience like that as well as you have, Miss Ponsky.”

She was mollified and he knew that she had been in fear of a rebuff. She was the kind of person who would bite on a sore tooth, not letting it alone. She smiled and said. “Well now, Captain O’Hara — what do you think of all this talk about communists?”

“I think they’re capable of anything,” said O’Hara grimly.

“I’m going to put in a report to the State Department when I get back,” she said. “You ought to hear what Senor Aguillar has been telling me about General Lopez. I think the State Department should help Senor Aguillar against General Lopez and the communists.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” said O’Hara. “But perhaps your Stale Department doesn’t believe in interfering in Cordilleran affairs.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Miss Ponsky with acerbity.

* We’re supposed to be fighting the communists, aren’t we? Besides, Senor Aguillar assures me that he’ll hold elections as soon as General Lopez is kicked out. He’s a real democrat just eke you and me.”

O’Hara wondered what would happen if another South American state did go communist. Cuban agents were filtering all through Latin America like - woodworms in a piece of furniture. He tried to think of the strategic importance of Cordillera — it was on the Pacific coast and it straddled the Andes, a gun pointing to the heart of the continent. He thought the Americans would be very upset if Cordillera went communist.

Rohde came back and talked for a few minutes with Aguillar, then he crossed to O’Hara and said in a low voice. “Senor Aguillar would like to speak to you.” He gestured to Forester and the three of them went to where Aguillar was resting in a bunk.

He had brightened considerably and was looking quite spry. His eyes were lively and no longer filmed with weariness, and there was a strength and authority in his voice that O’Hara had not heard before. He realised that this was a strong man; maybe not too strong in the body because he was becoming old and his body was wearing out, but he had a strong mind. O’Hara suspected that if the old man had not had a strong will, the body would have crumpled under the strain it had undergone.

Aguillar said. “First I must thank you gentlemen for all you have done, and I am truly sorry that I have brought this calamity upon you.” He shook his head sadly. “It is the innocent bystander who always suffers in the clash of our Latin politics. I am sorry that this should have happened and that you should see my country in this sad light.”

“What else could we do?” asked Forester. “We’re all in the same boat.”

“I’m glad you see it that way,” said Aguillar. “Because of what may come next. What happens if we meet up with the communists who should be here and are not?”

“Before we come to that there’s something I’d like to query,” said O’Hara. Aguillar raised his eyebrows and motioned him to continue, so O’Hara said deliberately. “How do we know they are communists? Senorita Aguillar tells me that Lopez has tried to liquidate you several times. How do you know he hasn’t got wind of your return and is having another crack at you?”

Aguillar shook his head. “Lopez has — in your English idiom — shot his bolt. I know. Do not forget that I am a practical politician and give me credit for knowing my own work. Lopez forgot about me several years ago and is only interested in how he can safely relinquish the reins of power and retire. As for the communists — for years I have watched them work in my country, undermining the government and wooing the people. They have not got far with the people, or they would have disposed of Lopez by now. I am their only danger and I am sure that our situation is their work.”

Forester said casually. “Grivas was trying to make a clenched fist salute when he died.”

“All right,” said O’Hara. “But why all this rigmarole of Grivas in the first place? Why not just put a time bomb in the Dakota — that would have done the job very easily.”

Aguillar smiled. “Senor O’Hara, in my life as a politician I have had four bombs thrown at me and every one was defective. Our politics out here are emotional and emotion does not make for careful workmanship, even of bombs. And I am sure that even communism cannot make any difference to the native characteristics of my people. They wanted to make very, sure of me and so they chose the unfortunate Grivas as their instrument. Would you have called Grivas an emotional man?”

“I should think he was,” said O’Hara, thinking of Grivas’s exultation even in death. “And he was pretty slipshod too.”

Aguillar spread his hands, certain he had made his point. But he drove it home. “Grivas would be happy to be given such work; it would appeal to his sense of drama — and my people have a great sense of drama. As for being — er — slipshod, Grivas bungled the first part of the operation by stupidly killing himself, and the others have bungled the rest of it by not being here to meet us.”

O’Hara rubbed his chin. As Aguillar drew the picture it made a weird kind of sense.

Aguillar said. “Now, my friends, we come to the next point. Supposing, on the way down this mountain, we meet these men — these communists? What happens then?” He regarded O’Hara and Forester with bright eyes. “It is not your fight — you are not Cordillerans — and I am interested to know what you would do. Would you give this dago politician into the hands of his enemies or …”

“Would we fight?” finished Forester.

“It’s my fight,” said O’Hara bluntly. “I’m not a Cordillean, but Grivas pulled a gun on me and made me crash my plane. I didn’t like that, and I didn’t like the sight of the Coughlins. Anyway, I don’t like the sight of communists, and I think that, all in all, this is my fight.”

“I concur,” said Forester.

Aguillar raised his hand. “But it is not as easy as that, is it? There are others to take into account. Would it be fair on Miss — er — Ponsky, for instance? Now what I propose is this. Miguel, my niece and I will withdraw into another cabin while you talk it over — and I will abide by your joint decision.”

Forester looked speculatively at Peabody, who was just leaving the hut. He glanced at O’Hara, then said. “I think we should leave the question of fighting until there’s something to fight. It’s possible that we might just walk out of here.”

Aguillar had seen Forester’s look at Peabody. He smiled sardonically. “I see that you are a politician yourself, Senor Forester.” He made a gesture of resignation. “Very well, we will leave the problem for the moment — but I think we will have to return to it.”

“It’s a pity we had to come down the mountain,” said Forester. “There’s sure to be an air search, and it might have been better to stay by the Dakota.”

“We could not have lived up there,” said Rohde.

“I know, but it’s a pity all the same.”

“I don’t think it makes much difference,” said O’Hara. “The wreck will be difficult to spot from the air — it’s right at the foot of a cliff.” He hesitated. “And I don’t know about an air search — not yet, anyway.”

Forester jerked his head. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Andes Airlift isn’t noted for its efficiency and Filson, my boss, isn’t good at paperwork. This flight didn’t even have a number — I remember wondering about it just before we took off. It’s on the cards that San Croce control haven’t bothered to notify Santillana to expect us.” As he saw Forester’s expression he added. “The whole set-up is shoestring and sealing-wax — it’s only a small field.”

“But surely your boss will get worried when he doesn’t hear from you?”

“He’ll worry,” agreed O’Hara. “He told me to phone him from Santillana — but he won’t worry too much at first. There have been times when I haven’t phoned through on his say-so and had a rocket for losing cargo. But I don’t think he’ll worry about losing the plane for a couple of days at least.”

Forester blew out his cheeks. “Wow — what a Rube Goldberg organisation. Now I really feel lost.”

Rohde said, “We must depend on our own efforts. I think we can be sure of that.”

“We flew off course too,” said O’Hara. “They’ll start the search north of here — when they start.”

Rohde looked at Aguillar whose eyes were closed. “There is nothing we can do now,” he said. “But we must sleep. It will be a hard day tommorow.”

iii

Again, O’Hara did not sleep very well, but at least he was resting on a mattress instead of a hard floor with_a full belly. Peabody was on watch and O’Hara was due to relieve him at two o’clock; he was glad when the time came.

He donned his leather jacket and took the vicuna coat that Forester had given him, He, suspected that he would be glad of it during the next two hours. Forester was awake and waved lazily as he went out, although he did not speak The night air was thin and cold and O’Hara shivered as he set off down the road. As Rohde had said, the conditions for survival were better here than up by the airstrip, but it was still pretty dicey. He was aware that his heart was thumping and that his respiration rate was up. It would be much better when they got down to the quebrada, as Rohde called the lateral valley to which they were heading.

He reached the corner where he had to leave the road and headed towards the looming outcrop of rock which Rohde had picked as a vantage point. Peabody should have been perched on top of the rock and should have heard him coming, but there was no sign of his presence.

O’Hara called softly, “Peabody!”

There was silence.

Cautiously he circled the outcrop to get it silhouetted against the night sky. There was a lump on top of the rock which he could not quite make out He began to climb the rock and as he reached the top he heard a muffled snore. He shook Peabody and his foot clinked on a bottle — Peabody was drunk.

“You bloody fool,” he said and started to slap Peabody’s race, but without appreciable result. Peabody muttered in his drunken stupor but did not recover consciousness. “I ought so let you die of exposure,” whispered O’Hara viciously, but x knew he could not do that. He also knew that he could not hope to carry Peabody back to the camp by himself. He would have to get help.

He stared down the mountainside but all was quiet, so he climbed down the rock and headed back up the road. Forester was still awake and looked up inquiringly as O’Hara entered the hut. “What’s the matter?” he asked, suddenly alert.

“Peabody’s passed out,” said O’Hara. “I’ll need help to bring him up.”

“Damn this altitude,” said Forester, putting on his shoes.

“It wasn’t the altitude,” O’Hara said coldly. “The bastard’s dead drunk.”

Forester muffled an imprecation. “Where did he get the stuff?”

“I suppose he found it in one of the huts,” said O’Hara. “I’ve still got my flask — I was saving it for Aguillar.”

“All right,” said Forester. “Let’s lug the damn fool up here.”

It wasn’t an easy thing to do. Peabody was a big, flabby man and his body lolled unco-operatively, but they managed it at last and dumped him unceremoniously in a bunk. Forester gasped and said. “This idiot will be the death of us all if we don’t watch him.” He paused. “I’ll come down with you — it might be better to have two pairs of eyes down there right now.”

They went back and climbed up on to the rock, lying side by side and scanning the dark mountainside. For fifteen minutes they were silent, but saw and heard nothing. “I think it’s okay,” said Forester at last. He shifted his position to ease his bones. “What do you think of the old man?”

“He seems all right to me,” said O’Hara.

“He’s a good joe — a good liberal politician. If he lasts long enough he might end up by being a good liberal statesman — but liberals don’t last long in this part of the world, and I think he’s a shade too soft.” Forester chuckled. “Even when it’s a matter of life and death — his life and death, not to mention his niece’s — he still sticks to democratic procedure. He wants us to vote on whether we shall hand him over to the commies. Imagine that!”

“I wouldn’t hand anyone over to the communists,” said O’Hara. He glanced sideways at the dark bulk of Forester.

“You said you could fly a plane — I suppose you do it as a matter of business; company plane and all that.”

“Hell, no,” said Forester. “My outfit’s not big enough or advanced enough for that. I was in the Air Force — I flew in Korea.”

“So did I,” said O’Hara. “I was in the R.A.F.”

“Well, what do you know.” Forester was delighted. “Where were you based?”

O’Hara told him and he said. “Then you were flying Sabres like I was. We went on joint operations — hell, we must have flown together.”

“Probably.”

They lay in companionable silence for a while, then Forester said, “Did you knock down any of those Migs? I got four, then they pulled me out. I was mad about that — I wanted to be a war hero; an ace, you know.”

“You’ve got to get five in the American Air Force, haven’t you?”

“That’s right,” said Forester. “Did you get any?”

“A couple,” said O’Hara. He had shot down eight Migs but it was a part of his life he preferred to forget, so he didn’t elaborate. Forester sensed his reserve and was quiet. After a few minutes he said. “I think I’ll go back and get some sleep — if I can. We’ll be on our way early.”

When he had gone O’Hara stared into the darkness and thought about Korea. That had been the turning point of his life: before Korea he had been on his way up; after Korea there was just the endless slide, down to Filson and now beyond. He wondered where he would end up.

Thinking of Korea brought back Margaret and the letter. He had read the letter while on ready call on a frozen airfield. The Americans had a name for that kind of letter — they called the. “Dear Johns.” She was quite matter-of-fact about it and said that they were adult and must be sensible about this thing — all the usual rationalisations which covered plain infidelity. Looking back on it afterwards O’Hara could see a little humour in it — not much, but some. He was one of the inglorious ten per cent of any army fighting away from home, and he had lost his wife to a civilian. But it wasn’t funny at all reading that letter on the cold airfield in Korea.

Five minutes later there was a scramble and he was in the air and thirty minutes later he was fighting. He went into battle with cold ferocity and a total lack of judgment. In three minutes he shot down two Migs, surprising them by sheer recklessness. Then a Chinese pilot with a cooler mind shot him down and he spent the rest of the war in a prison cage.

He did not like to think of that period and what had happened to him. He had come out of it with honour, but the psychiatrists had a field day with him when he got back to England. They did what they could but they could not break down the shell he had built about himself — and neither, by that time, could he break out.

And so it went — invalided out of the Air Force with a pension which he promptly commuted; the good jobs — at first — and then the poorer jobs, until he got down to Filson. And always the drink — more and more booze which had less and less effect as he tried to fill and smother the aching emptiness inside him.

He moved restlessly on the rock and heard the bottle clink, He put out his hand, picked it up and held it to the sky. It was a quarter full. He smiled. He could not get drunk on that but it would be very welcome. Yet as the fiery fluid spread and warmed his gut he felt guilty.

iv

Peabody was blearily belligerent when he woke up and found O’Hara looking at him. At first he looked defensive, then his instinct for attack took over. “I’m not gonna take anything from you,” he said shakily. “Not from any goddam limey.”

O’Hara just looked at him. He had no wish to tax Peabody with anything. Weren’t they members of the same dub? he thought sardonically. Fellow drunks. Why, we even drink from the same bottle. He felt miserable.

Rohde took a step forward and Peabody screamed. “And “I’m not gonna take anything from a dago either.”

“Then perhaps you’ll take it from me,” snapped Forester. He took one stride and slapped Peabody hard on the side of me face. Peabody sagged back on the bed and looked into Forester’s cold eyes with an expression of fear and bewilderment on his face. His hand came up to touch the red blotch on his cheek. He was just going to speak when Forester pushed a finger at him. “Shut up! One cheep out of you and I’ll mash you into a pulp. Now get your big fat butt off that bed and get to work — and if you step out of line again I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

The ferocity in Forester’s voice had a chilling effect on Peabody. All the belligerence drained out of him. “I didn’t!

mean to ” he began.

“Shut up!” said Forester and turned his back on him. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he announced generally.

They took food and a pressure stove and fuel, carrying it in awkwardly contrived packs cobbled from their overcoats. O’Hara did not think that Forester’s boss would thank him for the vicuna coat, already showing signs of hard use.

Aguillar said he could walk, provided he was not asked to go too fast, so Forester took the stretcher poles and lashed them together in what he called a travois. “The Plains Indians used this for transport,” he said. “They got along without wheels — so can we.” He grinned. “They pulled with horses and we have only manpower, but it’s downhill all the way.”

The travois held a lot, much more than a man could carry, and Forester and O’Hara took first turn at pulling the triangular contraption, the apex bumping and bouncing on the stony ground.’ The others fell into line behind them and once more they wound their way down the mountain.

O’Hara looked at his watch — it was six a.m. He began to calculate — they had not come very far the previous day, not more than four or five miles, but they had been rested, warmed and fed, and that was all to the good. He doubted if they could make more than ten miles a day, so that meant another two days to the refinery, but they had enough food for at least four days, so they would be all right even if Aguillar slowed them down. Things seemed immeasurably brighter.

The terrain around them began to change. There were tufts of grass scattered sparsely and an occasional wild flower, and as they went on these signs of life became more frequent. They were able to move faster, too, and O’Hara said to Rohde. “The low altitude seems to be doing us good.”

“That — and acclimatisation,” said Rohde. He smiled grimly. “If it does not kill you, you can get used to it — eventually.”

They came to one of the inevitable curves in the road and Rohde stopped and pointed to a silvery thread. “That is the quebrada — where the river is. We cross the river and turn north. The refinery is about twenty-four kilometres from the bridge.”

“What’s the height above sea-level?” asked O’Hara. He was beginning to take a great interest in the air he breathed — more interest than he had ever taken in his life.

“About .three thousand five hundred metres,” said Rohde.

Twelve thousand feet, O’Hara thought. That’s much better.

They made good time and decided they would be able to have their midday rest and some hot food on the other side of the bridge. “A little over five miles in half a day,” said Forester, chewing on a piece of jerked beef. “That won’t be bad going. But I hope to God that Rohde is right when he says that the refinery is still inhabited.”

“We will be all” right,” said Rohde. “There is a village ten miles the other side of the refinery. Some of us can go on and bring back help if necessary.”

They pushed on and found that suddenly they were in the valley. There was no more snow and the ground was rocky, with more clumps of tough grass. The road ceased to twist and they went past many small ponds. It was appreciably warmer too, and O’Hara found that he could stride out without losing his breath.

We’ve got it made, he thought exultantly.

Soon they heard the roar of the river which carried the melt-water from the snow fields behind them and suddenly they were all gay. Miss Ponsky chattered unceasingly, exclaiming once in her high-pitched voice as she saw a bird, the first living, moving thing they had seen in two days. O’Hara heard Aguillar’s deep chuckle and even Peabody cheered up, recovering from Forester’s tongue-lashing.

O’Hara found himself next to Benedetta. She smiled at him and said. “Who has the pressure stove? We are going to need it soon.”

He pointed back to where Willis and Armstrong were pulling the travois. “I packed it in there,” he said.

They were very near the river now and he estimated that the road would have one last turn before they came to the bridge. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s see what’s round the corner.”

They stepped out and round the curve and O’Hara suddenly stopped. There were men and vehicles on the other side of the swollen river and the bridge was down.

A faint babble of voices arose above the river’s roar as they were seen and some of the men on the other side started to run. O’Hara saw a man reach into the back of a truck and lift out a rule and there was a popping noise as others opened up with pistols.

He lurched violently into Benedetta, sending her flying just as the rifle cracked, and she stumbled into cover, dropping some cans in the middle of the road. As O’Hara fell after her one of the cans suddenly leaped into the air as a bullet hit it, and leaked a tomato bloodiness.

Chapter III

O’Hara, Forester and Rohde looked down on the bridge from the cover of a group of large boulders near the edge of the river gorge. Below, the river rumbled, a green torrent of ice-water smoothly slipping past the walls it had cut over the aeons. The gorge was about fifty yards wide.

O’Hara was still shaking from the shock of being unexpectedly fired upon. He had thrown himself into the side of the road, winding himself by falling on to a can in the pocket of his overcoat. When he recovered his breath he had looked with stupefaction at the punctured can in the middle of the road, bleeding a red tomato and meat gravy. That could have been me, he thought — or Benedetta.

It was then that he started to shake.

They had crept back round the corner, keeping in cover, while rifle bullets flicked chips of granite from the road surface. Rohde was waiting for them, his gun drawn and his face anxious. He looked at Benedetta’s face and his lips drew back over his teeth hi a snarl as he took a step forward.

“Hold it,” said Forester quietly from behind him. “Let’s not be too hasty.” He put his hand on O’Hara’s arm. “What’s happening back there?”

O’Hara took a grip on himself. “I didn’t have time to see much. I think the bridge is down; there are some trucks on the other side and there seemed to be a hell of a lot of men.”

Forester scanned the ground with a practised eye. “There’s plenty of cover by the river — we should be able to get a good view from among those rocks without being spotted. Let’s go.”

So here they were, looking at the ant-like activity on the other side of the river. There seemed to be about twenty men; some were busy unloading thick planks from a truck, others were cutting rope into lengths. Three men had apparently been detailed off as sentries; they were standing with rifles in their hands, scanning the bank of the gorge. As they watched, one of the men must have thought he saw something because he raised his rifle and fired a shot.

Forester said,. “Nervous, aren’t they? They’re firing at shadows.”

O’Hara studied the gorge. The river was deep and ran fast — it was obviously impossible to swim. One would be swept away helplessly in the grip of that rush of water and be frozen to death in ten minutes. Apart from that, there were the problems of climbing down the edge of the gorge to the water’s edge and getting up the other side, not to mention the likelihood of being shot.

He crossed the river off his mental list of possibilities and turned his attention to the bridge. It was a primitive suspension contraption with two rope catenaries strung from massive stone buttresses on each side of the gorge. From the catenaries other ropes, graded in length, supported the main roadway of the bridge which was made of planks. But there was a gap in the middle where a lot of planks were missing and the ropes dangled in the breeze.

Forester said softly, “That’s why they didn’t meet us at the airstrip. See the truck in the river — downstream, slapped up against the side of the gorge?”

O’Hara looked and saw the truck in the water, almost totally submerged, with a standing wave of water swirling over the top of the cab. He looked back at the bridge. “It seems as though it was crossing from this side when it went over.”

“That figures,” said Forester. “I reckon they’d have Ť couple of men to make the preliminary arrangements — stocking up the camp and so on — in readiness for the main party. When the main party was due they came down to the bridge to cross — God knows for what reason. But they didn’t make, it — and they buggered the bridge, with the main party still on the other side.”

“They’re repairing it now,” said O’Hara. “Look.”

Two men crawled on to the swaying bridge pushing a plank before them. They lashed it into place with the aid of a barrage of snouted advice from terra-firma and then retreated. O’Hara looked at his watch; it had taken them half an hour.

“How many planks to go?” he asked.

Rohde grunted. “About thirty.”

“That gives us fifteen hours before they’re across,” said O’Hara.

“More than that,” said Forester. “They’re not likely to do that trapeze act in the dark.”

Rohde took out his pistol and carefully sighted on the bridge, using his forearm as a rest. Forester said. “That’s no damned use — you won’t hit anything at fifty yards with a pistol.”

“I can try,” said Rohde.

Forester sighed. “All right,” he conceded. “But just one shot to see how it goes. How many slugs have you got?”

“I had two magazines with seven bullets in each,” said Rohde. “I have fired three shots.”

“You pop off another and that leaves ten. That’s not too many.”

Rohde tightened his lips stubbornly and kept the pistol where it was. Forester winked at O’Hara and said. “If you don’t mind I’m going to retire now. As soon as you start shooting they’re going to shoot right back”

He withdrew slowly, then turned and lay on his back and looked at the sky, gesturing for O’Hara to join him. “It looks as though the time is ripe to hold our council of war,” he said. “Surrender or fight. But there may be a way out of it — have you got that air chart of yours?”

O’Hara produced it. “We can’t cross the river — not here, at least,” he said.

Forester spread out the chart and studied it. He put his finger down. “Here’s the river — and this is where we are. This bridge isn’t shown. What’s this shading by the river?”

“That’s the gorge.”

Forester whistled. “Hell, it starts pretty high in the mountains, so we can’t get around it upstream. What about the other way?”

O’Hara measured off the distance roughly. “The gorge stretches for about eighty miles down stream, but there’s a bridge marked here — fifty miles away, as near as dammit.”

“That’s a hell of a long way,” commented Forester. “I doubt if the old man could make it — not over mountain country.”

O’Hara said. “And if that crowd over there have any sense they’ll have another truckload of men waiting for us if we do try it. They have the advantage of being able to travel fast on the lower roads.”

“The bastards have got us boxed in,” said Forester. “So it’s surrender or fight”

“I surrender to no communists,” said O’Hara, There was a flat report as Rohde fired his pistol and, almost immediately, an answering fusillade of rifle shots, the sound redoubled by echoes from the high ground behind. A bullet ricocheted from close by and whined over O’Hara’s head.

Rohde came slithering down. “I missed,” he said.

Forester refrained from saying. “I told you so,” but his expression showed it. Rohde grinned, “But it stopped them working on the bridge — they went back fast and the plank dropped in the river.”

“That’s something,” said O’Hara. “Maybe we can hold them off that way.”

“For how long?” asked Forester. “We can’t hold them off for ever — not with ten slugs. We’d better hold our council of war. You stay here, Miguel; but choose a different observation point — they might have spotted this one.”

O’Hara and Forester went back to the group on the road. As they approached O’Hara said in a low voice, “We’d better do something to ginger this lot up; they look too bloody nervous.”

There was a feeling of tension in the air. Peabody was muttering in a low voice to Miss Ponsky, who for once was silent herself. Willis was sitting on a rock, nervously tapping his foot on the ground, and Aguillar was speaking rapidly to Benedetta some little way removed from the group. The only one at ease seemed to be Armstrong, who was placidly sucking on an empty pipe, idly engaged in drawing patterns on the ground with a stick.

O’Hara crossed to Aguillar. “We’re going to decide what to do,” he said. “As you suggested.”

Aguillar nodded gravely. “I said that it must happen.”

O’Hara said, “You’re going to be all right.” He looked at Benedetta; her face was pale and her eyes were dark smudges in her head. He said. “I don’t know how long this is going to take, but why don’t you begin preparing a meal for us. We’ll all feel better when we’ve eaten.”

“Yes, child,” said Aguillar. “I will help you. I am a good cook, Senor O’Hara.”

O’Hara smiled at Benedetta. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He walked over to where Forester was giving a pep talk. “And that’s the position,” he was saying. “We’re boxed in and there doesn’t seem to be any way out of it — but there is always a way out of anything, using brains and determination. Anyway, it’s a case of surrender or fight. I’m going to fight — and so is Tim O’Hara here; aren’t you, Tim?”

“I am,” said O’Hara grimly.

“I’m going to go round and ask your views, and you must each make your own decision,” continued Forester. “What about you, Doctor Willis?”

Willis looked up and his face was strained. “It’s difficult, isn’t it? You see, I’m not much of a fighter. Then again, it’s a question of the odds — can we win? I don’t see much reason in putting up a fight if we’re certain of losing — and I don’t see any chance at all of our winning out.” He paused, then said hesitantly, “But I’ll go with the majority vote.”

Willis, you bastard, you’re a fine example of a fence-sitter, thought O’Hara.

“Peabody?” Forester’s voice cut like a lash.

“What the hell has this got to do with us?” exploded Peabody. “I’m damned if I’m going to risk my life for any wop politician. I say hand the bastard over and let’s get the hell out of here.”

“What do you say, Miss Ponsky?”

She gave Peabody a look of scorn, then hesitated. All the talk seemed to be knocked out of her, leaving her curiously deflated. At last she said in a small voice. “I know I’m only a woman and I can’t do much in the way of fighting, and I’m scared to death — but I think we ought to fight.” She ended in a rush and looked defiantly at Peabody. “And that’s my vote.”

Good for you, Miss Ponsky, cheered O’Hara silently. That’s three to fight. It’s now up to Armstrong — he can tip it for fighting or make a deadlock, depending on his vote.

“Doctor Armstrong, what do you have to say?” queried Forester.

Armstrong sucked on his pipe and it made an obscene noise. “I suppose I’m more an authority on this kind of situation than anyone present,” he observed. “With the possible exception of Senor Aguillar, who at present is cooking our lunch, I see. Give me a couple of hours and I could quote a hundred parallel examples drawn from history.”

Peabody muttered in exasperation. “What the hell!”

“The question at issue is whether to hand Senor Aguillar to the gentlemen on the other side of the river. The important point, as I see it affecting us, is what would they do with him? And I can’t really see that there is anything they can do with him other than kill him. Keeping high-standing politicians as prisoners went out of fashion a long time ago. Now, if they kill him they will automatically be forced to kill us. They would not dare take the risk of letting this story loose upon the world. They would be most painfully criticised, perhaps to the point of losing what they have set out to gain, In short, the people of Cordillera would not stand for it. So you see, we are not fighting for the life of Senor Aguillar; we are fighting for our own lives.” He put his pipe back into his mouth and made another rude noise. ‘Does that mean that you are in favour of fighting?”

asked Forester. “Of course,” said Armstrong in surprise. “Haven’t you listening to what I’ve been saying?” Peabody looked at him in horror. “Jesus!” he said. “What have I got myself into?” He buried his head in his hands, Forester grinned at O’Hara, and said, “Well, Doctor Willis?”

“I fight,” said Willis briefly. O’Hara chuckled. One academic man had convinced another.

Forester said, “Ready to change your mind, Peabody?” Peabody looked up. “You really think they’re going to rub us all out?”

“If they kill Aguillar I don’t see what else they can do,” Armstrong reasonably. “And they will kill Aguillar, you know.”

“Oh, hell,” said Peabody in an anguish of indecision. “Come on,” Forester ordered harshly. “Put up or shut “I guess I’ll have to throw in with you,” Peabody said morosely.

“That’s it, then,” said Forester. “A unanimous vote. I’ll tell Aguillar and we’ll discuss how to fight over some food.” Miss Ponsky went to help the Aguillars with their cooking and O’Hara went back to the river to see what Rohde was doing. He looked back and saw that Armstrong was talking to Willis and again drawing on the ground with a stick. Willis looked interested.

Rohde had chosen a better place for observation and at first O’Hara could not find him. At last he saw the sole of a boot protruding from behind a rock and joined Rohde, who seemed pleased. “They have not yet come out of their holes,” he said. “It has been an hour. One bullet that missed has held them up for an hour.”

“That’s great,” said O’Hara sardonically. “Ten bullets — ten hours.”

“It is better than that,” protested Rohde. “They have thirty planks to put in — that would take them fifteen hours without my bullets. With the shooting it will take them twenty-five hours. They will not work at night — so that is two full days.”

O’Hara nodded. “It gives us tame to decide what to do next,” he admitted. But when the bullets were finished and the bridge completed a score of armed and ruthless men would come boiling over the river. It would be a slaughter.

“I will stay here,” said Rohde. “Send some food when it is ready.” He nodded towards the bridge. “It takes a brave man to walk on that, knowing that someone will shoot at him. I do not think these men are very brave — maybe it will be more than one hour to a bullet.”

O’Hara went back and told Forester what was happening and Forester grimaced. “Two days — maybe- — two days to come up with something. But with what?”

O’Hara said. “I think a Committee of Ways and Means is indicated.”

They all sat in a circle on the sparse grass and Benedetta and Miss Ponsky served the food on the aluminium plates they had found at the camp. Forester said. “This is a war council, so please stick to the point and let’s have no idle chit-chat — we’ve no time to waste. Any sensible suggestions will be welcome.”

There was a dead silence, then Miss Ponsky said. “I suppose the main problem is to stop them repairing the bridge. Well, couldn’t we do something at this end — cut the ropes or something?”

“That’s good in principle,” said Forester. “Any objections to it?” He glanced at O’Hara, knowing what he would say.

O’Hara looked at Forester sourly; it seemed as though he was being cast as the cold-water expert and he did not fancy the role. He said deliberately. “The approaches to the bridge from this side are wide open; there’s no cover for at least a hundred yards — you saw what happened to Benedetta and me this morning. Anyone who tried to get to the bridge along the road would be cut down before he’d got halfway. It’s point blank range, you know — they don’t have to be crack shots.” He paused. “Now I know it’s the only way we can get at the bridge, but it seems impossible to me.”

“What about a night attack?” asked Willis. “That sounds good,” said Forester.

O’Hara hated to do it, but he spoke up. “I don’t want to sound pessimistic, but I don’t think those chaps over there are entirely stupid. They’ve got two trucks and four jeeps, maybe more, and those vehicles have at least two headlights apiece. They’ll keep the bridge well lit during the dark hours.”

There was silence again.

Armstrong cleared his throat. “Willis and I have been doing a little thinking and maybe we have something that will help. Again I find myself in the position of being something of an expert. You know that my work is the study of medieval history, but it so happens that I’m a specialist, and my speciality is medieval warfare. The position as I see it is that we are in a castle with a moat and a drawbridge. The drawbridge is fortuitously pulled up, but our enemies are trying to rectify that state of affairs. Our job is to stop them.”

“With what?” asked O’Hara. “A push of a pike?”

“I wouldn’t despise medieval weapons too much, O’Hara,” said Armstrong mildly. “I admit that-the people of those days weren’t as adept in the art of slaughter as we are, but still, they managed to kill each other off at a satisfactory rate. Now, Rohde’s pistol is highly inaccurate at the range he is forced to use. What we want is a more efficient missile weapon than Rohde’s pistol.”

“So we all make like Robin Hood,” said Peabody derisively. “With the jolly old longbow, what? For Christ’s sake, Professor!”

“Oh, no,” said Armstrong. “A longbow is very chancy in the hands of a novice. It takes five years at least to train a good bowman.”

“I can use the bow,” said Miss Ponsky unexpectedly. Everyone looked at her and she coloured. “I’m president of the South Bridge Ladies’ Greenwood Club. Last year I won our own little championship in the Hereford Round.”

“That’s interesting,” said Armstrong.

O’Hara said. “Can you use a longbow lying down, Miss Ponsky?”

“It would be difficult,” she said. “Perhaps impossible.”

O’Hara jerked his head at the gorge. “You stand up there with a longbow and you’ll get filled full of holes.”

She bridled. “I think you’d do better helping than pouring cold water on all our ideas, Mr. O’Hara.”

“I’ve got to do it.” said O’Hara evenly. “I don’t want anyone killed uselessly.”

“For God’s sake,” exclaimed Willis. “How did a longbow come into this? That’s out — we can’t make one; we haven’t the material. Now, will you listen to Armstrong; he has a point to make.” His voice was unexpectedly firm.

The flat crack of Rohde’s pistol echoed on the afternoon air and there was the answering rattle of shots from the other side of the gorge. Peabody ducked and O’Hara looked at his watch. It had been an hour and twenty minutes — and they had nine bullets left.

Forester said, “That’s one good thing — we’re safe here. Their rifles won’t shoot round corners. Make your point, Doctor Armstrong.”

“I was thinking of something more on the lines of a prodd or crossbow,” said Armstrong. “Anyone who can use a rifle can use a crossbow and it has an effective range of over a hundred yards.” He smiled at O’Hara. “You can shoot it lying down, too.”

O’Hara’s mind jumped at it. They could cover the bridge and also the road on the other side where it turned north and followed the edge of the gorge and where the enemy trucks were. He said, “Does it have any penetrative power?”

“A bolt will go through mail if it hits squarely,” said Armstrong.

“What about a petrol tank?”

“Oh, it would penetrate a petrol tank quite easily.”

“Now, take it easy,” said Forester. “How in hell can we make a crossbow?”

“You must understand that I’m merely a theoretician where this is concerned,” explained Armstrong. “I’m no mechanic or engineer. But I described what I want to Willis and he thinks we can make it.”

“Armstrong and I were rooting round up at the camp,” said Willis. “One of the huts had been a workshop and there was a lot of junk lying about — you know, the usual bits and pieces that you find in a metal-working shop. I reckon they didn’t think it worthwhile carting the stuff away when they abandoned the place. There are some flat springs and odd bits of metal rod; and there’s some of that concrete reinforcing steel that we can cut up to make arrows.”

“Bolts,” Armstrong corrected mildly. “Or quarrels, if you prefer. I thought first of making a prodd, you know; that’s a type of crossbow which fires bullets, but Willis has convinced me that we can manufacture bolts more easily.”

“What about tools?” asked O’Hara. “Have you anything that will cut metal?”

“There are some old hacksaw blades,” Willis said. “And I saw a couple of worn-out files. And there’s a hand-powered grindstone that looks as though it came out of the Ark. I’ll make out; I’m good with my hands and I can adapt Armstrong’s designs with the material available.”

O’Hara looked at Forester, who said slowly. “A weapon accurate to a hundred yards built out of junk seems too good to be true. Are you certain about this, Doctor Armstrong?”

“Oh, yes,” Ťsaid Armstrong cheerfully. “The crossbow has killed thousands of men in its time — I see no reason why it shouldn’t kill a few more. And Willis seems to think he can make it.” He smiled. “I’ve drawn the blueprints there.” He pointed to a few lines scratched in the dust.

“If we’re going to do this, we’d better do it quickly,” said O’Hara.

“Right.” Forester looked up at the sun. “You’ve got time to make it up to the camp by nightfall. It’s uphill, but you’ll be travelling light. You go too, Peabody; Willis can use another pair of hands.”

Peabody nodded quickly. He had no taste for staying too near the bridge.

“One moment,” said Aguillar, speaking for the first time. “The bridge is made of rope and wood — very combustible materials. Have you considered the use of fire? Senor O’Hara gave me the idea when he spoke of petrol tanks.”

“Urn,” said O’Hara. “But how to get the fire to the bridge?”

“Everyone think of that,” said Forester. “Now let’s get things moving.”

Armstrong, Willis and Peabody left immediately on the long trudge up to the camp. Forester said. “I didn’t know what to make of Willis — he’s not very forthcoming — but I’ve got him tagged now. He’s the practical type; give him something to do and he’ll get it done, come hell or high water. He’ll do.”

Aguillar smiled. “Armstrong is surprising, too.”

“My God!” said Forester. “Crossbows in this day and age!”

O’Hara said, “We’ve got to think about making camp. There’s no water here, and besides, our main force is too close to the enemy. There’s a pond about half a mile back — I think that’s a good spot.”

“Benedetta, you see to that,” Aguillar commanded. “Miss Ponsky will help you.” He watched the two women go, then turned with a grave face. “There is something we must discuss, together with Miguel Let us go over there.”

Rohde was happy. “They have not put a plank in the bridge yet. They ran again like the rabbits they are.”

Aguillar told him what was happening and he said uncertainly. “A crossbow?”

“I think it’s crazy, too,” said Forester. “But Armstrong reckons it’ll work.”

“Armstrong is a good man,” said Aguillar. “He is thinking of immediate necessities — but I think of the future. Suppose we hold off these men; suppose we destroy the bridge — what then?”

“We’re not really any better off,” said O’Hara reflectively. “They’ve got us pinned down anyway.”

“Exactly,” said Aguillar. “True, we have plenty of food, but that means nothing. Time is very valuable to these men, just as it is to me. They gain everything by keeping me inactive.”

“By keeping you here they’ve removed you from the game,” agreed Forester. “How long do you think it will be before they make their coup d’etat?”

Aguillar shrugged. “One month — maybe two. Certainly not longer. We advanced our own preparations because the communists showed signs of moving. It is a race between us with the destiny of Cordillera as the prize — maybe the destiny of the whole of Latin America is at stake. And the time is short.”

“Your map, Senor O’Hara,” said Rohde suddenly.

O’Hara took out the chart and spread it on a rock, and Rohde traced the course of the river north and south, shaking his head. “This river — this gorge — is a trap, pinning us against the mountains,” he said.

“We’ve agreed it’s no use going for the bridge downstream,” said Forester. “It’s a hell of a long way and it’s sure to be guarded.”

“What’s to stop them crossing that bridge and pushing up on this side of the river to outflank us?” asked O’Hara.

“As long as they think they can repair this bridge they won’t do that,” Aguillar said. “Communists are not supermen; they are as lazy as other people and they would not relish crossing eighty kilometres of mountain country — that would take at least four days. I think they will be content to stop the bolt hole.”

Rohde’s fingers swept across the map to the west. “That leaves the mountains.”

Forester turned and looked at the mountain wall, at the icy peaks. “I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t think Senor Aguillar could make it.”

“I know,” said Rohde. “He must stay here. But someone must cross the mountains for help.”

“Let’s see if it’s practicable,” said O’Hara. “I was going to fly through the Puerto de las Aguilas. That means that anyone going back would have to go twenty miles north before striking west through the pass. And he’d have to go pretty high to get round this bloody gorge. The pass isn’t so bad — it’s only about fourteen thousand feet.”

“A total of about thirty miles before he got into the Santos Valley,” said Forester. “That’s on straight line courses. It would probably be fifty over the ground.”

“There is another way,” said Rohde quietly. He pointed to the mountains. “This range is high, but not very wide. On the other side lies the Santos Valley. If you draw a line on the map from here to Altemiros in the Santos Valley you will find that it is not more than twenty-five kilometres.”

O’Hara bent over the map and measured the distance. “You’re right; about fifteen miles — but it’s all peaks.”

“There is a pass about two miles north-west of the mine,” said Rohde. “It has no name because no one is so foolish as to use it. It is about five thousand eight hundred metres.”

Forester rapidly translated. “Wow! Nineteen thousand feet.”

“What about lack of oxygen?” asked O’Hara. “We’ve had enough trouble with that already. Could a man go over that pass without oxygen?”

“I have done so,” said Rohde. “Under more favourable conditions. It is a matter of acclimatisation. Mountaineers know this; they stay for days at one level and then move up the mountain to another camp and stay a few days there also before moving to a higher level. It is to attune their bodies to the changing conditions.” He looked up at the mountains. “If I went up to the camp tommorow and spent a day there then went to the mine and stayed a day there — I think I could cross that pass.”

Forester said. “You couldn’t go alone.”

“I’ll go with you,” said O’Hara promptly.

“Hold on there,” said Forester. “Are you a mountaineer?”

“No,” said O’Hara.

“Well, I am. I mean, I’ve scrambled about in the Rockies — that should count for something.” He appealed to Rohde. “Shouldn’t it?”

Aguillar said. “You should not go alone, Miguel.”

“Very well,” said Rohde. “I will take one man — you.” He nodded to Forester and smiled grimly. “But I promise you — you will be sorry.”

Forester grinned cheerfully and said, “Well, Tim, that leaves you as garrison commander. You’ll have your hands full.”

“Si,” said Rohde. “You must hold them off.”

A new sound was added to the noise of the river and Rohde immediately wriggled up to his observation post, then beckoned to O’Hara. “They are starting their engines,” he said. “I think they are going away.”

But the vehicles did not move. “What are they doing?” asked Rohde in perplexity.

“They’re charging their batteries,” said O’Hara. “They’re making sure that they’ll have plenty of light tonight.”

ii

O’Hara and Aguillar went back to help the women make camp, leaving Rohde and Forester to watch the bridge. There was no immediate danger of the enemy forcing the crossing and any unusual move could soon be reported. Forester’s attitude had changed as soon as the decision to cross the mountains had been made. He no longer drove hard for action, seemingly being content to leave it to O’Hara. It was as though he had tacitly decided that there could be only one commander and the man was O’Hara.

O’Hara’s lips quirked as he mentally reviewed his garrison. An old man and a young girl; two sedentary academic types; a drunk and someone’s maiden aunt; and himself — a broken-down pilot. On the other side of the river were at least twenty ruthless men — with God knows how many more to back them up. His muscles tensed at the thought that they were communists; sloppy South American communists, no doubt — but still communists.

Whatever happens, they’re not going to get me again, he thought.

Benedetta was very quiet and O’Hara knew why. To be shot at for the first time took the pith out of a person — one came to the abrupt realisation that one was a soft bag of wind and liquids, vulnerable and defenceless against steel-jacketed bullets which could rend and tear. He remembered the first time he had been in action, and felt very sorry for Benedetta; at least he had been prepared, however inadequately, for the bullets — the bullets and the cannon shells.

He looked across at the scattered rocks on the bleak hillside. “I wonder if there’s a cave over there?” he suggested. “That would come in handy right now.” He glanced at Benedetta. “Let’s explore a little.”

She looked at her uncle who was helping Miss Ponsky check the cans of food. “All right,” she said.

They crossed the road and struck off at right angles, making their way diagonally up the slope. The ground was covered with boulders and small pebbles and the going was difficult, their feet slipping as the stones shifted. O’Hara thought that one could break an ankle quite easily and a faint idea stirred at the back of his mind.

After a while they separated, O’Hara to the left and the girl to the right. For an hour they toiled among the rocks, searching for something that would give shelter against the night wind, however small. O’Hara found nothing, but he heard a faint shout from Benedetta and crossed the hillside to see what she had found.

It was not ,a cave, merely a fortuitous tumbling of the rocks. A large boulder had rolled from above and wedged itself between two others, forming a roof. It reminded O’Hara of a dolmen he had seen on Dartmoor, although the whole thing was very much bigger. He regarded it appreciatively. At least it would be shelter from snow and rain and it gave little protection from the wind.

He went inside and found a hollow at the back. “This is good,” he said. “This will hold a lot of water — maybe twenty gallons.”

He turned and looked at Benedetta. The exercise had brought some colour into her cheeks and she looked better, He produced his cigarettes. “Smoke?” She shook her head. “I don’t.”

“Good!” he said with satisfaction. “I was hoping you didn’t.” He looked into the packet — there were eleven left. “I’m a selfish type, you know; I want these for myself.”

He sat down on a rock and lit his cigarette, voluptuously inhaling the smoke. Benedetta sat beside him and said. “I’m glad you decided to help my uncle.”

O’Hara grinned. “Some of us weren’t too sure. It needed a little tough reasoning to bring them round. But it was finally unanimous.”

She said in a low voice. “Do you think there’s any chance of our coming out of this?”

O’Hara bit his lip and was silent for a time. Then he said. “There’s no point in hiding the truth — I don’t think we’ve got a cat in hell’s chance. If they bust across the bridge and we’re as defenceless as we are now, we won’t have a hope.” He waved his hand at the terrain. “There’s just one chance — if we split up, every man for himself heading in a different direction, then they’ll have to split up, too. This is rough country and one of us might get away to tell what happened to the rest. But that’s pretty poor consolation.”

“Then why did you decide to fight?” she said in wonder.

O’Hara chuckled. “Armstrong put up some pretty cogent arguments,” he said, and told her about it. Then he added. “But I’d have fought anyway. I don’t like those boys across the river; I don’t like what they do to people. It makes no difference if their skins are yellow, white or brown — they’re all of the same stripe.”

“Senor Forester was telling me that you fought together in Korea,” Benedetta said.

“We might have — we probably did. He was in an American squadron which we flew with sometimes. But I never met him.”

“It must have been terrible,” she said. “All that fighting.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” said O’Hara. “The fighting part of it.” He smiled. “You do get used to being shot at, you know. I think that people can get used to anything if it goes on long enough — most things, anyway. That’s the only way wars can be fought — because people can adapt and treat the craziest things as normal. Otherwise they couldn’t go through with it.”

She nodded. “I know. Look at us here. Those men shoot at us and Miguel shoots back — he regards it as the normal thing to do.”

“It is the normal thing to do,” said O’Hara harshly. “The human being is a fighting animal; it’s that quality which has put him where he is — the king of this planet.” His lips twisted. “It’s also the thing that’s maybe holding him back from bigger things.” He laughed abruptly. “Christ, this is no time for the philosophy of war — I’d better leave that to Armstrong.”

“You said something strange,” said Benedetta. “You said that Korea wasn’t too bad — the fighting part of it. What was bad, if it wasn’t the fighting?”

O’Hara looked into the distance. “It was when the fighting stopped — when I stopped fighting — when I couldn’t fight any more. Then it was bad.”

“You were a prisoner? In the hands of the Chinese? Forester said something of that.”

O’Hara said slowly. “I’ve killed men in combat — in hot blood — and I’ll probably do it again, and soon, at that. But what those communist bastards can do intellectually and with cold purpose is beyond …” He shook his head irritably. “I prefer not to talk about it.”

He had a sudden vision of the bland, expressionless features of the Chinese lieutenant, Feng. It was something that had haunted his dreams and woken him screaming ever since Korea. It was the reason he preferred to go to sleep in a sodden, dreamless and mindless coma. He said. “Let’s talk about you. You speak good English — where did you learn it?”

She was aware that she had trodden on forbidden and shaky ground. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Senor O’Hara,” she said contritely.

“That’s all right. But less of the Senor O’Hara; my name is Tim.”

She smiled quickly. “I was educated in the United States, Tim. My uncle sent me there after Lopez made the revolution.” She laughed. “I was taught English by a teacher very like Miss Ponsky.”

“Now there’s a game old trout,” said O’Hara. “Your uncle sent you? What about your parents?”

“My mother died when I was a child. My father — Lopez had him shot.”

O’Hara sighed. “We both seem to be scraping on saw nerves, Benedetta. I’m sorry.”

She said sadly. “It’s the way the world is, Tim.”

He agreed sombrely. “Anyone who expects fair play in this world is a damn fool. That’s why we’re in this jam.

Come on, let’s get back; this isn’t getting us anywhere.” He pinched off his cigarette and carefully put the stub back in the packet.

As Benedetta rose she said, “Do you think that Senor Armstrong’s idea of a crossbow will work?”

“I don’t,” said O’Hara flatly. “I think that Armstrong is a romantic. He’s specialised as a theoretician in wars a thousand years gone, and I can’t think of anything more futile than that. He’s an ivory-tower man — an academician — bloodthirsty in a theoretical way, but the sight of blood will turn his stomach. And I think he’s a little bit nuts.”

iii

Armstrong’s pipe gurgled as he watched Willis rooting about in the rubbish of the workshop. His heart was beating rapidly and he felt breathless, although the altitude did not seem to affect him as much as the previous time he had been at the hutted camp. His mind was turning over the minutiae of his profession — the science of killing without gunpowder. He thought coldly and clearly about the ranges, trajectories and penetrations -that could be obtained from pieces of bent steel and twisted gut, and he sought to adapt the ingenious mechanisms so clearly diagrammed in his mind to the materials and needs of the moment. He looked up at the roof beams of the hut and a new idea dawned on him. But he put it aside — the crossbow came first.

Willis straightened, holding a flat spring. “This came from an auto — will it do for the bow?”

Armstrong tried to flex it and found it very stiff. “It’s very strong,” he said. “Probably stronger than anything they had in the Middle Ages. This will be a very powerful weapon. Perhaps this is too strong — we must be able to bend it.”

“Let’s go over that problem again,” Willis said.

Armstrong drew on the back of an envelope. “For the light sporting bows they had a goafs-foot lever, but that is not strong enough for the weapon we are considering. For the heavier military bows they had two methods of bending — the cranequin, a ratchet arranged like this, which-was demounted for firing, and the other was a windlass built into the bow which worked a series of pulleys.”

Willis looked at the rough sketches and nodded. “The windlass Is our best bet,” he said. “That ratchet thing would be difficult to make. And if necessary we can weaken the spring by grinding it down.” He looked around. “Where’s Peabody?”

“I don’t know,” said Armstrong. “Let’s get on with This.”

“You’d better find him,” Willis said. “We’ll put him on to making arrows — that should be an easy job.” “Bolts or quarrels,” said Armstrong patiently. “Whatever they’re called, let’s get on with it,” Willis said. They found Peabody taking it easy in one of the huts, beating a can of beans. Reluctantly he went along to the workshop and they got to work. Armstrong marvelled at the dexterity of Willis’s fingers as he contrived effective parts from impossible materials and worse tools. They found the grindstone to be their most efficient cutting tool, although i it tended to waste material. Armstrong sweated in turning the crank and could not keep it up for long, so they took it in turns, he and Willis silently, Peabody with much cursing. They ripped out electric wiring from a hut and tore down conduit tubing. They cut up reinforcing steel into lengths and slotted the ends to take flights. It was cold and their hands were numb and the blood oozed from the cuts made when their makeshift tools slipped.

They worked all night and dawn was brightening the sky as Armstrong took the completed weapon in his hands and’ looked at it dubiously. “It’s a bit different from how I imagined it, but I think it will do.” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Ill take it down now — they might need it.”

Willis slumped against the side of the hut. “I’ve got an idea for a better one,” he said. “That thing will be a bastard to cock. But I must get some sleep first — and food.” His voice trailed to a mumble and he blinked his eyes rapidly.

All that night the bridge had been illuminated by the headlamps of the enemy vehicles and it was obviously hopeless to make a sortie in an attempt to cut the cables. The enemy did not work on the bridge at night, not relishing being in a spotlight when a shot could come out of the darkness.

Forester was contemptuous of them. “The goddam fools,” he said. “If we can’t hit them in daylight then it’s sure we can’t at night — but if they’d any sense they’d see that they could spot our shooting at night and they’d send a man on to the bridge to draw our fire — then they’d fill our man full of holes.”

But during the daylight hours the enemy had worked on the bridge, and had been less frightened of the shots fired at them. No one had been hit and it had become obvious that there was little danger other than that from a freakishly lucky shot. By morning there were but six bullets left for Rohde’s pistol and there were nine more planks in the bridge.

By nine o’clock Rohde had expended two more bullets and it was then that Armstrong stumbled down the road carrying a contraption. “Here it is,” he said. “Here’s your crossbow.” He rubbed his eyes which were red-rimmed and tired. “Professionally speaking, I’d call it an arbalest.”

“My God, that was quick,” said O’Hara.

“We worked all night,” Armstrong said tiredly. “We thought you’d need it in a hurry.”

“How does it work?” asked O’Hara, eyeing it curiously.

“The metal loop on the business end is a stirrup,” said Armstrong. “You put it on the ground and put your foot in it. Then you take this cord and clip the hook on to the bowstring and start winding on this handle. That draws back the bowstring until it engages on this sear. You drop a bolt in this trough and you’re ready to shoot. Press the trigger and the sear drops to release the bowstring.”

The crossbow was heavy in O’Hara’s hands. The bow itself was made from a car spring and the bowstring was & length of electric wire woven into a six-strand cord to give i: strength. The cord which drew it back was also electric wire woven of three strands. The seat and trigger were carved from wood, and the trough where the bolt went was made from a piece of electric conduit piping.

It was a triumph of improvisation.

“We had to weaken the spring,” said Armstrong. “But it’s still got a lot of bounce. Here’s a bolt — we made a dozen.”

The bolt was merely a length of round steel, three-eighths of an inch in diameter and fifteen inches long. It was very rusty. One end was slotted to hold metal flights cut from a dried-milk can and the other end was sharpened to a point O’Hara hefted it thoughtfully; it was quite heavy. “If this thing doesn’t kill immediately, anyone hit will surely die c: blood-poisoning. Does it give the range you expected?”

“A little more,” said Armstrong. “These bolts are heavier than the medieval originals because they’re steel throughout instead of having a wooden shaft — but the bow is very powerful and that makes up for it. Why don’t you try it out?”

O’Hara put his foot in the stirrup and cranked the windlass handle. He found it more difficult than he had anticipated — the bow was very strong. As he slipped a bolt into the trough he said, “What should I shoot at?”

“What about that earth bank over there?”

The bank was about sixty yards away. He raised the crossbow and Armstrong said quickly. “Try it lying down, the way we’ll use it in action. The trajectory is very flat so you won’t have much trouble with sighting. I thought we’d wait until we got down here before sighting in.” He produced a couple of gadgets made of wire. “We’ll use a ring-and-pin sight.”

O’Hara lay down and fitted the rough wooden butt awkwardly into his shoulder. He peered along the trough and sighted as best he could upon a brown patch of earth on the bank. Then he squeezed the trigger and the crossbow bucked hard against his shoulder as the string was released.

There was a puff of dust from the extreme right of the target at which he had aimed. He got up and rubbed his shoulder. “My God!” he said with astonishment. “She’s got a hell of a kick.”

Armstrong smiled faintly. “Let’s retrieve the bolt.”

They walked over to the bank but O’Hara could not see it. “It went in about here,” he said. “I saw the dust distinctly — but where is it?”

Armstrong grinned. “I told you this weapon was powerful. There’s the bolt.”

O’Hara grunted with amazement as he saw what Armstrong meant. The bolt had penetrated more than its own length into the earth and had buried itself completely. As Armstrong dug it out, O’Hara said. “We’d better all practise with this thing and find out who’s the best shot.” He looked at Armstrong. “You’d better get some sleep; you look pooped.”

“I’ll wait until I see the bow in action,” said Armstrong. “Maybe it’ll need some modification. Willis is making another — he has some ideas for improvements — and we put Peabody to making more bolts.” He stood upright with the bolt in his hands. “And I’ve got to fix the sights.”

All of them, excepting Aguillar and Rohde, practised with the crossbow, and — perhaps not surprisingly — Miss Ponsky turned out to be the best shot, with Forester coming next and O’Hara third. Shooting the bow was rough on Miss Ponsky’s shoulder, but she made a soft shoulder-pad and eight times out of ten she put a bolt into a twelve-inch circle, clucking deprecatingly when she missed.

“She’s not got the strength to crank it,” said Forester. “But she’s damned good with the trigger.”

“That settles it,” said O’Hara. “She gets first crack at the enemy-if she’ll do it.” He crossed over to her and said with a smile. “It looks as though you’re elected to go into action first. Will you give it a go?”

Her face paled and her nose seemed even sharper. “Oh, my!” she said, flustered. “Do you think I can do it?”

“They’ve put in another four planks,” said O’Hara quietly. “And Rohde’s saving his last four bullets until he’s reasonably certain of leaking a hit. This is the only other chance we’ve got — and you’re the best shot.”

Visibly she pulled herself together and her chin rose in determination. “All right,” she said. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good! You’d better come and have a look at the bridge to get your range right — and maybe you’d better take a few practice shots at the same range.”

He took her up to where Rohde was lying. “Miss Ponsky’s going to have a go with the crossbow,” he said.

Rohde looked at it with interest. “Does it work?”

“It’s got the range and the velocity,” O’Hara told him. “It should work all right.” He turned his attention to the bridge. Two men had just put in another plank and were retreating. The gap in the bridge was getting very small — soon it would be narrow enough for a determined man to leap. “You’d better take the nearest man the next time they come out,” he said. “What would you say the range is?” . Miss Ponsky considered. “A little less than the range I’ve been practising at,” she said. “I don’t think I need to practise any more.” There was a tremor in her voice.

O’Hara regarded her. “This has got to be done, Miss Ponsky. Remember what they did to Mrs. Coughlin — and what they’ll do to us if they get across the bridge.”

“I’ll be all right,” she said in a low voice.

O’Hara nodded in satisfaction. “You take Rohde’s place. I’ll be a little way along. Take your time — you needn’t hurry. Regard it as the target practice you’ve just been doing.”

Forester had already cocked the bow and handed it up to Miss Ponsky. She put a bolt in the trough and slid forward on her stomach until she got a good view of the bridge. O’Hara waited until she was settled, then moved a little way farther along the edge of the gorge. He looked back and saw Forester talking to Armstrong, who was lying full-length on the ground, his eyes, closed.

He found a good observation post and lay waiting. Presently the same two men appeared again, carrying a plank. They crawled the length of the bridge, pushing the plank before them until they reached the gap — even though none of them had been hit, they weren’t taking unnecessary chances. Once at the gap they got busy, lashing the plank to the two main ropes.

O’Hara found his heart thumping and the wait seemed intolerably long. The nearest man was wearing a leather jacket similar to his own and O’Hara could see quite clearly the flicker of his eyes as he gazed apprehensively at the opposite bank from time to time. O’Hara clenched his fist. “Now!” he whispered. “For God’s sake — now!”

He did not hear the twang as the crossbow fired, but he saw the spurt of dust from the man’s jacket as the bolt hit him, and suddenly a shaft of steel sprouted from the man’s back just between the shoulder blades. There was a faint cry above the roar of the river and the man jerked his legs convulsively. He thrust his arms forward, almost in an imploring gesture, then he toppled sideways and rolled off the edge of the bridge, to fall in a spinning tangle of arms and legs into the raging river.

The other man paused uncertainly, then ran back across the bridge to the other side of the gorge. The bridge swayed under his pounding feet and as he ran he looked back fearfully. He joined the group at the end of the bridge and O’Hara saw him indicate his own back and another man shaking his head in disbelief.

Gently he withdrew and ran back to the place from which Miss Ponsky had fired the shot. She was lying on the ground, her body racked with sobs, and Forester was bending over her. “It’s all right, Miss Ponsky,” he was saying. “It had to be done.”

“But I’ve killed a man,” she wailed. “I’ve taken a life.”

Forester got her to her feet and led her away, talking softly to her all the time. O’Hara bent and picked up the crossbow. “What a secret weapon!” he said in admiration. No noise, no flash — just zing.” He laughed. “They still don’t know what happened — not for certain. Armstrong, you’re a bloody genius.”

But Armstrong was asleep.

iv

The enemy made no further attempts to repair the bridge that morning. Instead, they kept up a steady, if slow, light barrage of rifle fire, probing the tumble of rocks at the edge of the gorge in the hope of making hits. O’Hara withdrew everyone to safety, including Rohde. Then he borrowed a small mirror from Benedetta and contrived a makeshift periscope, being careful to keep the glass in the shadow of a rock so that it would not reflect direct sunlight. He fixed it so that an observer could lie on his back in perfect cover, but could still keep an eye on the bridge. Forester took first watch.

O’Hara said. “If they come on the bridge again use the gun — just one shot. We’ve got them off-balance now and a bit nervous. They don’t know if that chap fell off the bridge by accident, whether he was shot and they didn’t hear the report, or whether it was something else. We know it was something else and so does the other man who was on the bridge, but I don’t think they believe him. There was a hell of an argument going on the last I saw of it. At any rate, I think they’ll be leery of coming out now, and a shot ought to put them off.”

Forester checked the pistol and looked glumly at the four remaining bullets. “I feel a hell of a soldier — firing off twenty-five per cent of the available ammunition at one bang. “It’s best this way,” said O’Hara. “They don’t know the state of our ammunition, the crossbow is our secret weapon, and by God we must make the best use of it. I have ideas about that, but I want to wait for the second crossbow.” He paused. “Have you any idea how many of the bastards are across there?”

“I tried a rough count,” said Forester. “I made it twenty-three. The leader seems to be a big guy with a Castro beard. He’s wearing some kind of uniform — jungle-green pants and a bush-jacket.” He rubbed his chin and said thoughtfully. “It’s my guess that he’s a Cuban specialist.”

“I’ll look out for him,” said O’Hara. “Maybe if we can nail him, the rest will pack up. “Maybe,” said Forester non-committally. O’Hara trudged back to the camp which had now been transferred to the rock shelter on the hillside. That was a better defensive position and could not be so easily rushed.

the attackers having to move over broken ground. But O’Hara had no great faith in it; if the enemy crossed the bridge they could move up the road fast, outflanking the rock shelter to move in behind and surround them. He had cudgelled his brain to find a way of blocking the road but had not come up with anything.

But there it was — a better place than the camp by the pond and the roadside. The trouble was water, but the rock hollow at the rear of the shelter had been filled with twenty-five gallons of water, transported laboriously a canful at a time, much of it spilling on the way. And it was a good place to sleep, too.

Miss Ponsky had recovered from her hysteria but not from her remorse. She was unaccustomedly quiet and withdrawn, speaking to no one. She had helped to transport the water and the food but had done so mechanically, as if she did not care. Aguillar was grave. “It is not right that this should be,” he said. “It is not right that a lady like Miss Ponsky should have to do these things.”

O’Hara felt exasperated. “Dammit, we didn’t start this fight,” he said. “The Coughlins are dead, and Benedetta was nearly killed — not to mention me. I’ll try not to let it happen again, but she is the best shot and we are fighting for our lives.”

“You are a soldier,” said Aguillar. “Almost I seem to hear you say, with Napoleon, that one cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs.” His voice was gently sardonic.

O’Hara disregarded that. “We must all practise with the bow — we must learn to use it while we have time.”

Aguillar tapped him on the arm. “Senor O’Hara, perhaps if I gave myself to these people they would be satisfied.”

O’Hara stared at him. “You know they wouldn’t; they can’t let us go — knowing what we know.”

Aguillar nodded. “I know that; I was wondering if you did.” He shrugged half-humorously. “I wanted you to convince me there is nothing to gain by it — and you have. I am sorry to have brought this upon all these innocent people.”

O’Hara made an impatient noise and Aguillar continued, “There comes a time when the soldier takes affairs out of the hands of the politician — all ways seem to lead to violence. So I must cease to be a politician and become a soldier. I will learn how to shoot this bow well, senor.”

“I wouldn’t do too much, Senor Aguillar,” said O’Hara.

“You must conserve your strength in case we must move suddenly and quickly. You’re not in good physical shape, you know.”

Aguillar’s voice was sharp. “Senor, I will do what I must.” O’Hara said no more, guessing he had touched on Spanish-American pride. He went to talk to Miss Ponsky.

She was kneeling in front of the pressure stove, apparently intent on watching a can of water boil, but her eyes were unfocused and staring far beyond. He knew what she was looking at — a steel bolt that had sprouted like a monstrous growth in the middle of a man’s back.

He said. “Killing another human being is a terrible thing, Miss Ponsky. I know — I’ve done it, and I was sickened for days afterwards. The first time I shot down an enemy fighter in Korea I followed him down — it was a dangerous thing to do, but I was young and inexperienced then. The Mig went down in flames, and his ejector seat didn’t work, so he opened the canopy manually and jumped out against the slipstream. “It was brave or desperate of that man to do that. But he had the Chinese sort of courage — or maybe the Russian courage, for all I know. You see, I didn’t know the nationality or even the colour of the man I had killed. He fell to earth, a spinning black speck. His parachute didn’t open. I knew he was a dead man.”

O’Hara moistened his lips. “I felt bad about that, Miss Ponsky; it sickened me. But then I thought that the same man had been trying to kill me — he nearly succeeded, too. He had pumped my plane full of holes before I got him and I crash-landed on the airstrip. I was lucky to get away with it — I spent three weeks in hospitals I finally worked it out that it was a case of him or me, and I was the lucky one. I don’t know if he would have had regrets a he had killed me — I think probably not. Those people aren’t trained to have much respect for life.”

He regarded her closely. “These people across the river are the same that I fought in Korea, no matter that their skins are a different colour. We have no fight with them if they will let us go in peace — but they won’t do that, Miss Ponsky. So it’s back to basics; kill or be killed and the devil take the loser. You did all right, Miss Ponsky; what you did may have saved all our lives and maybe the lives of a lot of people in this country. Who knows?”

As he lapsed into silence she turned to him and said in a husky, broken voice. “I’m a silly old woman, Mr. O’Hara.

For years I’ve been talking big, like everyone else in America, about fighting the communists; but I didn’t have to do it myself, and when it comes to doing it yourself it’s a different matter. Oh, we women cheered our American boys when they went to fight — there’s no one more bloodthirsty than one who doesn’t have to do the fighting. But when you do your own killing, it’s a dreadful thing, Mr. O’Hara.”

“I know,” he said. “The only thing that makes it bearable is that if you don’t kill, then you are killed. It reduces to a simple choice in the end.”

“I realise that now, Mr. O’Hara,” she said. “I’ll be all right now.”

“My name is Tim,” he said. “The English are pretty stuffy about getting on to first-name terms, but not we Irish.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “I’m Jennifer.”

“All right, Jenny,” said O’Hara. “I’ll try not to put you in a spot like that again.”

She turned her head away and said in a muffled voice. “I think I’m going to cry.” Hastily she scrambled to her feet and ran out of the shelter.

Benedetta said from behind O’Hara. “That was well done, Tim.”

He turned and looked at her stonily. “Was it? It was something that had to be done.” He got up and stretched his legs. “Let’s practise with that crossbow.”

v

For the rest of the day they practised, learning to allow for wind and the effect of a change of range. Miss Ponsky tightened still further her wire-drawn nerves and became instructress, and the general level of performance improved enormously.

O’Hara went down to the gorge and, by triangulation, carefully measured the distance to the enemy vehicles and was satisfied that he had the range measured to a foot. Then he went back and measured the same distance on the ground and told everyone to practise with the bow at that range. It was one hundred and eight yards.

He said to Benedetta. “I’m making you my chief-of-staff — that’s a sort of glorified secretary that a general has. Have you got pencil and paper?”

She smiled and nodded, whereupon he reeled off a dozen things that had to be done. “You pass on that stuff to the right people in case I forget — I’ve got a hell of a lot of things on my mind right now and I might slip up on something important when the action starts.”

He set Aguillar to tying bunches of rags around half a dozen bolts, then shot them at the target to see if the rags made any difference to the accuracy of the flight. There was no appreciable difference, so he soaked one of them in paraffin and lit it before firing but the flame was extinguished before it reached the target.

He swore and experimented further, letting the paraffin burn fiercely before he pulled the trigger. At the expense of a scorched face he finally landed three fiercely burning bolts squarely in the target and observed happily that they continued to burn.

“We’ll have to do this in the day-time,” he said. “It’ll be bloody dangerous in the dark — they’d spot the flame before we shot.” He looked up at the sun. “Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ve got to drag this thing out as long as we can.”

It was late afternoon before the enemy ventured on to the bridge again and they scattered at a shot from Rohde who, after a long sleep, had taken over again from Forester. Rohde fired another shot before sunset and then stopped on instructions from O’Hara. “Keep the last two bullets,” he said. “We’ll need them.”

So the enemy put in three more planks and stepped up their illumination that night, although they dared not move en the bridge.

Chapter IV

Forester awoke at dawn. He felt refreshed after having had a night’s unbroken sleep. O’Hara had insisted that he and Rohde should not stand night watches but should get as much sleep as they could. This was the day that he and Rohde were to go up to the hutted camp to get acclimatised and the nest day to go on up to the mine.

He looked up at the white mountains and felt a sudden chill in his bones. He had lied to O’Hara when he said he had mountaineered in the Rockies — the highest he ‘had climbed was to the top of the Empire State Building In an elevator. The high peaks were blindingly bright as the sun touched them and he wrinkled his eyes to see the pass that Rohde had pointed out. Rohde had said he would be sorry and Forester judged he was right; Rohde was a tough cookie and not given to exaggeration.

After cleaning up he went down to the bridge. Armstrong was on watch, lying on his back beneath the mirror. He was busy sketching on a scrap of paper with a pencil stub, glancing up at the mirror every few minutes. He waved as he saw Forester crawling up and said. “All quiet They’ve just switched off the lights.”

Forester looked at the piece of paper. Armstrong had drawn what looked like a chemist’s balance. “What’s that?” he asked. “The scales of justice?”

Armstrong looked startled and then pleased. “Why, sir, you have identified it correctly,” he said.

Forester did not press it further. He thought Armstrong was a nut — clever, but still a nut. That crossbow of his had turned out to be some weapon — but it took a nut to think it up. He smiled at Armstrong and crawled away to where he could get a good look at the bridge.

His mouth tightened when he saw how narrow the gap was. Maybe he wouldn’t have to climb the pass after all; maybe he’d have to fight and die right where he was. He judged that by the afternoon the gap would be narrow enough for a man to jump and that O’Hara had better prepare himself for a shock. But O’Hara had seemed untroubled and talked of a plan, and Forester hoped to God that he knew what he was doing.

When he got back to the rock shelter he found that Willis had come down from the hutted camp. He had hauled a travois the whole way and it was now being unpacked. He had brought more food, some blankets and another crossbow which he was demonstrating to O’Hara.

“This will be faster loading,” he said. “I found some small gears, so I built them into the windlass — they make the cranking a lot easier. How did the other bow work?” “Bloody good,” said O’Hara. “It killed a man.” Willis paled a little and the unshaven bristles stood out against his white skin. Forester smiled grimly. The backroom boys always felt squeamish when they heard the results of their tinkering.

O’Hara turned to Forester. “As soon as they start work on the bridge we’ll give them a surprise,” he said. “It’s time we put a bloody crimp in their style. We’ll have breakfast and then go down to the bridge — you’d better stick around and see the fun; you can leave immediately afterwards.”

He swung around. “Jenny, don’t bother about helping with the breakfast. You’re our star turn. Take a crossbow and have a few practice shots at the same range as yesterday.” As she paled, he smiled and said gently. “We’ll be going down to the bridge and you’ll be firing at a stationary, inanimate target.”

Forester said to Willis, “Where’s Peabody?. “Back at the camp — making more arrows. “Have any trouble with him?”

Willis grinned briefly. “He’s a lazy swine but a couple of kicks up the butt soon cured that,” he said, unexpectedly coarsely. “Where’s Armstrong?. “On watch down by the bridge.”

Willis rubbed his chin with a rasping noise. “That man’s got ideas,” he said. “He’s a whole Manhattan Project by himself. I want to talk to him.”

He headed down the hill and Forester turned to Rohde, who had been talking to Aguillar and Benedetta in Spanish. “What do we take with us?”

“Nothing from here,” Rohde said. “We can get what we want at the camp; but we must take little from there — we travel light.”

O’Hara looked up from the can of stew he was opening. “You’d better take warm clothing — you can have my leather jacket,” he offered. “Thanks,” Forester said.

O’Hara grinned. “And you’d better take your boss’s vicuna coat — he may need it. I hear it gets cold in New York.” Forester smiled and took the can of hot stew. “I doubt if he’ll appreciate it,” he said dryly.

They had just finished breakfast when Willis came running back. “They’ve started work on the bridge,” he shouted. “Armstrong wants to know if he should shoot.”

“Hell no,” said O’Hara. “We’ve only got two bullets.” He swung on Rohde. “Go down there, get the gun from Armstrong and find yourself a good spot for shooting — but don’t shoot until I tell you.”

Rohde plunged down the hill and O’Hara turned to the others. “Everyone gather round,” he ordered. “Where’s Jenny?”

“I’m here,” called Miss Ponsky from inside the shelter.

“Come to the front, Jenny; you’ll play a big part in all this.” O’Hara squatted down and drew two parallel lines in the dust with a sharp stone. “That’s the gorge and this is the bridge. Here is the road; it crosses the bridge, turns sharply on the other side and runs on the edge of the gorge, parallel to the river.”

He placed a small stone on his rough diagram. “Just by the bridge there’s a jeep, and behind it another jeep. Both are turned so that their lights illuminate the bridge. Behind the second jeep there’s a big truck half full of timber.” O’Hara placed a larger stone. “Behind the truck there’s another jeep. There are some other vehicles farther down, but we’re not concerned with those now.”

He shifted his position. “Now for our side of the gorge. Miguel will be here, upstream of the bridge. He’ll take one shot at the men on tine bridge. He won’t hit anyone — he hasn’t yet, anyway — but that doesn’t matter. It’ll scare them and divert their attention, which is what I want.

“Jenny will be here, downstream of the bridge and immediately opposite the truck. The range is one hundred and eight yards, and we know the crossbow will do it because Jenny was shooting consistently well at that range all yesterday afternoon. As soon as she hears the shot she lets fly at the petrol tank of the truck.”

He looked up at Forester. “You’ll be right behind Jenny. As soon as she has fired she’ll hand you the bow and tell you if she’s hit the tank. If she hasn’t, you crank the bow, reload it and hand it back to her for another shot. If she has hit it, then you crank it, run up to where Benedetta will be waiting and give it to her cocked but unloaded.”

He placed another small stone. “I’ll be there with Benedetta right behind me. She’ll have the other crossbow ready cocked and with a fire-bolt in it.” He looked up at her. “” When I give you the signal you’ll light the paraffin rags on the bolt and hand the crossbow to me, and I’ll take a crack at the truck. We might need a bit of rapid fire at this point, so crank up the bows. You stick to seeing that the bolts are properly ignited before the bows are handed to me, just like we did yesterday in practice.”

He stood up and stretched. “Is that clear to everyone?”

Willis said. “What do I do?”

“Anyone not directly concerned with this operation will keep his head down and stay out of the way.” O’Hara paused.

“But stand by in case anything goes wrong with the bows. “I’ve got some spare bowstrings,” said Willis. “I’ll have a look at that first bow to see if it’s okay.”

“Do that,” said O’Hara. “Any more questions?”

There were no questions. Miss Ponsky held up her chin in a grimly determined manner; Benedetta turned immediately to collect the fire-bolts which were her care; Forester merely said, “Okay with me.”

As they were going down the hill, though, he said to O’Hara. “It’s a good plan, but your part is goddam risky. They’ll see those fire-bolts before you shoot. You stand a good chance of being knocked off.”

“You can’t fight a war without risk,” said O’Hara. “And that’s what this is, you know; it’s as much a war as any bigger conflict.”

“Yeah,” said Forester thoughtfully. He glanced at O’Hara sideways. “What about me doing this fire-bolt bit?”

O’Hara laughed. “You’re going with Rohde — you picked it, you do it. You said I was garrison commander, so while you’re here you’ll bloody well obey orders.”

Forester laughed too. “It was worth a try,” he said.

dose to the gorge they met Armstrong. “What’s going en?” he asked plaintively.

“Willis will tell you all about it,” said O’Hara. “Where’s Rohde?”

Armstrong pointed. “Over there.”

O’Hara said to Forester. “See that Jenny has a good seat for the performance,” and went to find Rohde.

As always, Rohde had picked a good spot. O’Hara wormed his way next to him and asked. “How much longer do you think they’ll be fixing that plank?”

“About five minutes.” Rohde lifted the pistol, obviously itching to take a shot.

“Hold it,” O’Hara said sharply. “When they come with the next plank give them five minutes and then take a crack. We’ve got a surprise cooking for them.”

Rohde raised his eyebrows but said nothing. O’Hara looked at the massive stone buttresses which carried the cables of the bridge. “It’s a pity those abutments aren’t made of timber — they’d have burnt nicely. What the hell did they want to build them so big for?. “The Incas always built well,” said Rohde.

“You mean this is Inca work?” said O’Hara, astonished. Rohde nodded. “It was here before the Spaniards came.

The bridge needs constant renewal, but the buttresses will last for ever.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said O’Hara. “I wonder why the Incas wanted a bridge here — in the middle of nowhere.”

“The Incas did many strange things.” Rohde paused. “I seem to remember that the ore deposit of this mine was found by tracing the surface workings of the Incas. They would need the bridge if they worked metals up here.”

O’Hara watched the men on the other side of the gorge. He spotted the big man with the beard whom Forester thought was the leader, wearing a quasi-uniform and with a pistol at his waist. He walked about bellowing orders and when he shouted men certainly jumped to it. O’Hara smiled grimly as he saw that they did not bother to take cover at all. No one had been shot at while on the other side — only when on the bridge and that policy was now going to pay off.

He said to Rohde. “You know what to do. I’m going to see to the rest of it.” He slid back cautiously until it was safe to stand, then ran to where the rest were waiting, skirting the dangerous open ground at the approach to the bridge. He said to Benedetto. “I’ll be posted there; you’d better get your stuff ready. Have you got matches?. “I have Senor Forester’s cigarette-lighter. “Good. You’d better keep it burning all the time, once the action starts. I’m just going along to see Jenny, then I’ll be back.”

Miss Ponsky was waiting with Forester a little farther along. She was bright-eyed and a little excited and O’Hara knew that she’d be all right if she didn’t have to kill anyone. Well, that was all right, too; she would prepare the way and he’d do the killing. He said. “Have you had a look?”

She nodded quickly. “The gas tank is that big cylinder fastened under the truck.”

“That’s right; it’s a big target. But try to hit it squarely — a bolt might glance off unless you hit it in the middle. “I’ll hit it,” she said confidently.

He said. “They’ve just about finished putting a plank in. When they start to fasten the next one Rohde is going to give them five minutes and then pop off. That’s your signal.” She smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Tim, I’ll do it.” Forester said. “I’ll keep watch. When they bring up the plank Jenny can take over.”

“Right,” said O’Hara and went back to Benedetta. Armstrong was cocking the crossbow and Benedetta had arranged the fire-bolts in an arc, their points stuck in the earth. She lifted a can. “This is the last of the kerosene; we’ll need more for cooking.”

O’Hara smiled at this incongruous domestic note, and Willis said. “There’s plenty up at the camp; we found two forty-gallon drums.”

“Did you, by God?” said O’Hara. “That opens up possibilities.” He climbed up among the rocks to the place he had chosen and tried to figure what could be done with a forty-gallon drum of paraffin. But then two men walked on to the bridge carrying a plank and he froze in concentration. One thing at a time, Tim, my boy, he thought.

He turned his head and said to Benedetta who was standing below. “Five minutes.”

He heard the click as she tested the cigarette-lighter and turned his attention to the other side of the gorge. The minutes ticked by and he found the palms of his hands sweating. He wiped them on his shirt and cursed suddenly. A man had walked by the truck and was standing negligently in front of it — dead in front of the petrol tank.

“For Christ’s sake, move on,” muttered O’Hara. He knew that Miss Ponsky must have the man in her sights — but would she have the nerve to pull the trigger? He doubted it.

Hell’s teeth, I should have told Rohde what was going on, he thought. Rhode wouldn’t know about the crossbow and would fire his shot on time, regardless of the man covering the petrol tank. O’Hara ground his teeth as the man, a short, thick-set Indian type, produced a cigarette and carelessly struck a match on the side of the truck.

Rohde fired his shot and there was a yell from the bridge. The man by the truck stood frozen for a long moment and then started to run. O’Hara ignored him from then on — the man disappeared, that was all he knew — and his attention was riveted on die petrol tank. He heard a dull thunk even at that distance, and saw a dark shadow suddenly appear in the side of the tank, and saw the tank itself shiver abruptly.

Miss Ponsky had done it!

O’Hara wiped the sweat from his eyes and wished he had binoculars. Was that petrol dropping on to the road? Was that dark patch in the dust beneath the truck the spreading stain of leaking petrol, or was it just imagination? The trigger-happy bandits on the other side were letting go with all they had in their usual futile barrage, but he ignored the racket and strained his aching eyes.

The Indian came back and looked with an air of puzzlement at the truck. He sniffed the air suspiciously and then bent down to look underneath the vehicle. Then be let out a yell and waved violently.

By God, thought O’Hara exultantly, it is petrol!

He turned and snapped his fingers at Benedetta who immediately lit the fire-bolt waiting ready in the crossbow. O’Hara thumped the rock impatiently with his fist while she waited until it got well alight. But he knew this was the right way — if the rags were not burning well the Same would be extinguished in Sight.

She thrust the bow at him suddenly and he twisted with it in his hands, the flame scorching his face. Another man had run up and was looking incredulously under the truck. O’Hara peered through the crude wire sight and through the flames of the burning bolt and willed himself to take his time. Gently he squeezed the trigger.

The butt lurched against his shoulder and he quickly twisted over to pass the bow back into Benedetta’s waiting hands, but he had time to see the flaming bolt arch well over the truck to bury itself in the earth on the other side of the road.

This new bow was shooting too high.

He grabbed the second bow and tried again, burning his fingers as he incautiously put his hand in the flame. He could feel his eyebrows shrivelling as he aimed and again the butt slammed his shoulder as he pulled the trigger. The shot went too far to the right and the bolt skidded on the road surface, sending up a shower of sparks.

The two men by the truck had looked up in alarm when the first bolt had gone over their heads. At the sight of the second bolt they both shouted and pointed across the gorge. Let -this one be it, prayed O’Hara, as he seized the bow from Benedetta. This is the one that shoots high, he thought, as he deliberately aimed for the lip of the gorge. As he squeezed the trigger a bullet clipped the rock by his head and a granite splinter scored a bloody line across his forehead. But the bolt went true, a flaming line drawn across the gorge which passed between the two men and beneath the truck.

With a soft thud the dripping petrol caught alight and the truck was suddenly enveloped in flames. The Indian staggered out of the inferno, his clothing on fire, and ran screaming down the road, his hands clawing at his eyes. O’Hara did not see the other man; he had turned and was grabbing for the second bow.

But he didn’t get off another shot. He had barely lined up the sights on one of the jeeps when the bow slammed into him before he touched the trigger. He was thrown back violently and the bow must have sprung of its own volition, for he saw a fire-bolt arch into the sky. Then his head struck a rock and he was knocked unconscious.

ii

He came round to find Benedetta bathing his head, looking worried. Beyond, he saw Forester talking animatedly to Willis and beyond them the sky, disfigured by a coil of black, greasy smoke. He put his hand to his head and winced. “What the hell hit me?” “Hush,” said Benedetta. “Don’t move.” He grinned weakly and lifted himself up on his elbow. Forester saw that he was moving. “Are you all right, Tim?. “I don’t know,” said O’Hara. “I don’t think so.” His head ached abominably. “What -happened?”

Willis lifted the crossbow. “A rifle bullet hit this,” he said. “It smashed the stirrup — you were lucky it didn’t hit you. You batted your head against a rock and passed out.”

O’Hara smiled painfully at Benedetta. “I’m all right,” he said and sat up. “Did we do the job?” - Forester laughed delightedly. “Did we do the job? Oh, boy!” He knelt down next to O’Hara. “To begin with. Rohde actually hit his man on the bridge when he shot — plugged him neatly through the shoulder. That caused all the commotion we needed. Jenny Ponsky had a goddam tricky time with that guy in front of the gas tank, but she did her job in the end. She was shaking like a leaf when she gave me the bow.”

“What about the truck?” asked O’Hara. “I saw it catch fire — that’s about the last thing I did see.”

“The truck’s gone,” said Forester. “It’s still burning — and the jeep next to it caught fire when the second gas tank on the other side of the truck blew up. Hell, they were running about like ants across there.” He lowered his voice.

“Both the men who were by the truck were killed. The Indian ran plumb over the edge of the gorge — I reckon he was blinded — and the other guy was burned to a crisp. Jenny didn’t see it and I didn’t tell her.”

O’Hara nodded; it would be a nasty thing for her to live with.

“That’s about it,” said Forester. “They’ve lost all their timber — it burned with the truck. They’ve lost the truck and a jeep and they’ve abandoned the jeep by the bridge — they couldn’t get it back past the burning truck. All the other vehicles they’ve withdrawn a hell of a long way down the road where it turns away from the gorge. I’d say it’s a good half-mile. They were hopping mad, judging by the way they opened up on us. They set up the damnedest barrage of rifle fire — they must have all the ammunition in the world.

“Anybody hurt?” demanded O’Hara.

“You’re our most serious casualty — no one else got a scratch.”

“I must bandage your head, Tim,” said Benedetta.

“We’ll go up to the pond,” said O’Hara.

As he got to his feet Aguillar approached. “You did well, Senor O’Hara,” he said.

O’Hara swayed and leaned on Forester for support. “Well enough, but they won’t fall for that trick again. All we’ve bought is time.” His voice was sober.

“Time is what we need,” said Forester. “Earlier this morning I wouldn’t have given two cents for our scheme to cross the mountains. But now Rohde and I can leave with an easy conscience.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better get on the road.”

Miss Ponsky came up. “Are you all right, Mr. O’Hara — Tim?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “You did all right, Jenny.”

She blushed. “Why — thank you, Tim. But I had a dreadful moment. I really thought I’d have to shoot that man by the truck.”

O’Hara looked at Forester and grinned weakly and Forester suppressed a macabre laugh. “You did just what you were supposed to do,” said O’Hara. “and you did it very well.” He looked around. “Willis, you stay down here — get the gun from Rohde, and if anything happens fire the last bullet. But I don’t think anything will happen — not yet a while. The rest of us will have a war council up by the pond. I’d like’ to do that before Ray goes off.”

“Okay,” said Forester.

They went up to the pond and O’Hara walked over to the water’s edge. Before he took a cupped handful of water he caught sight of his own reflection and grimaced distastefully. He was unshaven and very dirty, his face blackened by smoke and dried blood and his eyes red-rimmed and sore from the heat of the fire-bolts. My God, I look like a tramp, he thought.

He dashed cold water at his face and shivered violently, then turned to find Benedetta behind him, a strip of cloth in her hands. “Your head,” she said. “The skin was broken.”

He put a hand to the back of his head and felt the stickiness of drying blood. “Hell, I must have hit hard,” he said.

“You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Let me see to it.”

Her fingers were cool on his temples as she washed the wound and bandaged his head. He rubbed his hand raspingly over his cheek; Armstrong is always clean-shaven, he thought; I must find out how he does it.

Benedetta tied a neat little knot and said. “You must take it easy to-day, Tim. I think you are concussed a little.”

He nodded, then winced as a sharp pain stabbed through his head. “I think you’re right. But as for taking it easy — that isn’t up to me; that’s up to the boys on the .other side of the river. Let’s get back to the others.”

Forester rose up as they approached. “Miguel thinks we should get going,” he said.

“In a moment,” said O’Hara. “There are a few things I want to find out.” He turned to Rohde. “You’ll be spending a day at the camp and a day at the mine. That’s two days used up. Is this lost time necessary?”

“It is necessary and barely enough,” said Rohde. “It should be longer.”

“You’re the expert on mountains,” said O’Hara. “I’ll take your word for it. How long to get across?”

“Two days,” said Rohde positively. “If we have to take longer we will not do it at all.”

“That’s four days,” said O’Hara. “Add another day to convince someone that we’re in trouble and another for that someone to do something about it. We’ve got to hold out for six days at least — maybe longer.”

Forester looked grave. “Can you do it?”

“We’ve got to do it,” said O’Hara. “I think we’ve gained one day. They’ve got to find some timber from somewhere, and that means going back at least fifty miles to a town. They might have to get another truck as well — and it all takes time. I don’t think we’ll be troubled until tommorow — maybe not until the next day. But I’m thinking about your troubles — how are you going to handle things on the other side of the mountain?”

Miss Ponsky said. “I’ve been wondering about that, too. You can’t go to the government of this man Lopez. He would help Senor Aguillar, would he?”’ ‘Forester smiled mirthlessly. “He wouldn’t lift a finger. Are there any of your people in Altemiros, Senor Aguillar?”

“I will give you an address,” said Aguillar. “And Miguel will know. But you may not have to go as far as Altemiros.”

Forester looked interested and Aguillar said to Rohde. “The airfield.”

“Ah,” said Rohde. “But we must be careful.”

“What’s this about an airfield?” Forester asked.

“There is a high-level airfield in the mountains this side of Altemiros,” said Aguillar. “It is a military installation which the fighter squadrons use in rotation. Cordillera has four squadrons of fighter aircraft — the eighth, the tenth, the fourteenth and the twenty-first squadrons. We — like the communists — have been infiltrating the armed forces. The fourteenth squadron is ours; the eighth is communist; and the ether two still belong to Lopez.”

“So the odds are three to one that any squadron at the airfield will be a rotten egg,” commented Forester.

“That is right,” said Aguillar. “But the airfield is directly on your way to Altemiros. You must tread carefully and act discreetly, and perhaps you can save much time. The commandant of the fourteenth squadron, Colonel Rodriguez, is an old friend of mine — he is safe.”

“If he’s there,” said Forester. “But it’s worth the chance. We’ll make for this airfield as soon aid Gordie isn’t the pillar of reliability he used to be, now

that he’s got that new red-headed girlfriend. You’ll notice there’s been

no sign of him, despite all the commotion here.” Professor Borley

frowned uneasily. “She’s much too old for him, of course, but they seem

to be quite happy. I suppose one shouldn’t be judgemental about such

things. It’s their business, after all.”

“Quite right,” Lorinda agreed abstractedly. Had-I and But-Known were

sliding cushionwards again, ready to go back to sleep.

“No, you don’t,” she warned them. “We’re going home.” “Betty Alvin!”

Borley said, on a note of inspiration. “She’ll take care of the dogs.

“Betty already has her hands full,” Lorinda said. “Dorian is coming to

the end of his new book.” There might be more demanding employers than

Dorian, but not many. He monopolized Betty at the best of times; now

that he was coming to the end of a book, he undoubtedly turned into the

proverbial Fiend in Human Form. Perhaps they all did. It was a wonder

poor Betty was able to stand it. It was certainly unfair to expect her

to take on any more tasks at such a time. “In any case, I’m not going to

be here next week. I have business to attend to in London and I’m

leaving in the morning.” It was a spur of the moment decision but, as

soon as she said it, she knew it was the right one. She needed a

respite. When she returned, she would be better able to usher those

ghastly Sibling Spinster Sleuths to the victorious conclusion of another

case and a happy ending for everyone except the trapped villain.

“Tomorrow?” Professor Borley looked aghast, realization seeping in that

he was going to be left holding the pugs.

“Home,” Lorinda said sternly to the cats. Had-I twitched an ear and

wriggled deeper into the cushions. Lorinda sighed and started for the

door.

“You can’t leave them here!” Professor Borley sounded close

to panic at the thought of yet more animals to look after. “I don’t

intend to.” Lorinda reclaimed her shopping trolley from the hall and

wheeled it back into the living room. She positioned it beside the sofa

and flipped back the lid. But-Known opened one wary eye and closed it

again.

“Inside,” Lorinda ordered. Both cats remained motionless. She knew they

were aware of her because they had stopped purring.

“All right, we’ll do it this way.” She lifted Had-I and lowered her into

the basket. But-Known gave a faint mewling protest at receiving the same

treatment, then they both moulded themselves to the lumpy bags of

vegetables and returned to their semicomatose state. Lorinda lowered the

lid and wheeled the basket towards the door.

“Umm…” Professor Borley was at the window and appeared

to be about to say something, then changed his mind. “I suppose,” he

offered instead, “I could walk the dogs before bedtime tonight … and

open a can of dog food.”

“That would be fine,” Lorinda agreed. “Gemma may be able

to come home by tomorrow. It might just be a case of having her stomach

pumped and then they’ll release her to recuperate at home. I’ll ring the

hospital later and find out how she is.” “I hope you’re right,” he said

gloomily. “She looked pretty awful to me.”

Since Lorinda was the one moving, both dogs followed her hopefully to

the door. Perhaps she could be persuaded to take them for another walk.

“Ummm… Again, Professor Borley seemed about to say something. He

trailed after the dogs, looking undecided.

“It might be a good idea to open that dog food now,” Lorinda suggested.

“Fill their bowls and then you can slip out while they’re eating.”

“That wasn’t what -” He stepped back nimbly, trying to restrain the pugs

as she swung the door open and wheeled the shopping basket into the

marble hall.

And halted abruptly. Clarice was crossing the hall to the lift, her

white rat perched on her shoulder, its little red eyes gleaming wickedly

as it turned its head to look at Lorinda.

“Hello.” Clarice changed course, veering over to the group in the

doorway.

“No!” Lorinda gasped. “No, go back!”

“Don’t you like rats?” Clarice asked innocently, delighted with the

effect she was creating. “Boswell won’t hurt you. He’s really quite

tame. He won’t bite. Wouldn’t you like to pet him?”

“No.” Lorinda backed into Professor Borley as she tried to pull the

shopping basket back into Gemma’s flat.

Too late. The lid on the basket began bouncing as strong little legs

fought to brace themselves on the vegetables and leap upwards. Two

indignant yowls told Clarice what they’d like to do to Boswell. The dogs

added their yelps. “Back! Get back!” Lorinda pushed at the little

muzzles thrusting out of the basket.

“Steady, boys.” Professor Borley fought to keep the dogs from rushing

into the hall. “Steady there.”

“Oohhh…” Clarice began backing away. The rat squeaked, recognizing

danger, and tried to burrow down the neck of Clarice’s sweater.

Clarice screamed as it clawed frantically at her neckline. Had-I was

head and shoulders out of the basket now, hurling

a challenge that reverberated off the marble walls. Unusually, But-Known

was right behind her. The dogs slipped around Professor Borley and

skittered free into the hall.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OUT THERE?” Plantagenet Sutton threw open his

door, which was his mistake.

Clarice screamed again and hurled herself towards the sanctuary of the

open door, so much closer than the lift. The dogs pursued her, in full

cry.

Lorinda wrestled the cats back into the basket and jammed the lid shut

with her heavy shoulder bag, then raced for the front door.

Plantagenet staggered backwards as Clarice rushed past him. The dogs

hesitated momentarily as Lorinda opened the front door, distracted by

the sudden choice. Professor Borley swooped on them and gathered them

up.

“I always knew I wasn’t interested in keeping pets,” he said. “Now I

know why.” The wriggling bodies under his arms struggled to escape.

The door across the hall slammed shut. Plantagenet Sutton was behind it

- with Clarice and her rat. He wouldn’t appreciate that. He was even

less of a pet person than Borley, and Lorinda doubted that he cared much

for children, either.

“You were at the window,” Lorinda accused Borley coldly. “You must have

seen Clarice coming into the building. Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I thought of it, but you had the cats in the basket and I thought it

would be all right. They couldn’t see the rat.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of a sense of smell?” Lorinda bumped the trolley

over the threshold and out into the High Street. “And the fact that

animals have a much keener one than we do?”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t think-“

“Precisely, Professor Borley!” Lorinda turned and walked away briskly,

feeling that, for once, she had had the last word.

7

CHAPTER TWENTY

“I suppose you are wondering why I have brought us all together like

this,” Miss Petunia said slowly. Her heart was heavy as she surveyed her

siblings. Lily, so strong and self-assured; Marigold, so dainty and

delicate, with her bright blue eyes and red-gold hair. It was

unbearable, unthinkable, that they should be threatened in any way.

“In your own private study,” Marigold breathed with awe. “Oh, Petunia,

this is such an honour!” Her bright blue eyes danced around the room,

taking in every aspect of the rarely visited sanctum sanctorum. “Oh,

there’s Daddy’s precious amethyst-quartz lamp! I always wondered what

had happened to it.”

“You’ll tell us when you’re ready,” Lily said with supreme confidence.

“Mind if I borrow this copy of the Oxford English Dictionary? Had one of

my own once; don’t know whatever became of it.”

“Now settle down, girls.” Miss Petunia’s fond smile turned a trifle

wintry. “This is important. I want your full attention. In fact’ - she

paused portentously - “this may be the most important problem we have

ever faced in our whole lives.”

“Oh, goody!” Marigold clapped her hands girlishly. “We’ve got

a new case!” “Bout time we had another,” Lily said. “Been getting a bit

boring lately. Important, eh? Lots of money involved?”

“Far more important than mere money,” Miss Petunia said solemnly.

“Ooooh!” Marigold’s eyes grew round. “What could that be?” Lily was

sceptical.

“It is, literally,” Miss Petunia told them, “a matter of life and death.

Ours.”

“Somebody threatening us again?” Lily clenched her fists. “We’ve dealt

with that before. Soon see him off.”

“Ah, yes.” Miss Petunia removed her pince-nez and tapped them against

her chin thoughtfully. “I fear it may come to that.”

“Oh, tell us about it,” Marigold said eagerly. “I’m dying to hear

all about it. Only…” Her delicate brow furrowed. “I just must make a

telephone call first to…” She blushed delicately. “To my new friend.”

Lily growled deep in her throat. “He’s not good enough for you.

“I fear it will not be possible to ring anyone. Miss Petunia called them

to order. “I have turned the telephones off. It is vital that I have

your complete and undivided attention.”

“Petunia!” Marigold gasped. “You’ve never turned the telephones off

before!”

“We have never faced such a crisis before.” “That’s a bit thick!” Lily

growled. “Are you sure?” Miss Petunia gave her the sort of look she

rarely had occasion

to turn upon one of her sisters, her cohorts. Like any miscreant, Lily

quailed before it, but only momentarily.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “Lost my head.”

“I trust not,” Miss Petunia said. “Such a calamity is what we must now

unite to prevent.”

“Oh, Petunia!” Marigold gave a dramatic little shiver. “You sound so

solemn.”

“It is a solemn moment.” Miss Petunia bowed her head. “And one I never

expected to see. However, it has arrived and we must deal with it as

best we can.

“But, Petunia, what is it?”

“Come on, woman.” Lily, as ever, was impatient. “Out with it!”

“I have considered this deeply for some time.” Miss Petunia replaced her

pince-nez and looked from one sibling to the other. “I fear the

conclusion I have reached is inescapable. But first, I must ask you some

questions. Sit down.”

Lily thumped down instantly into the comfortable armchair. Marigold

flitted about for another moment, poising herself to perch on the edge

of the desk, but deterred by Miss Petunia’s severe look, she settled on

the footstool at Lily’s feet instead.

“Yes, Petunia?” she breathed.

“Are both of you quite comfortable?” Miss Petunia asked. “Fine,” Lily

said gruffly. “Springs seem to be loosening up a bit though. Probably

need reupholstering in a couple more years.”

“Oh, yes, this is-“

“Never mind the furniture!” Miss Petunia snapped. “Not now!

I mean, are you comfortable within yourselves? Have you been feeling at

all strange at times recently? Are you uneasy, perhaps unhappy, without

being able to put your finger on any reason for it?”

Lily and Marigold exchanged long glances. “Have you,” Miss Petunia

persisted, “been having strange dreams lately?”

“Fancy your knowing that!” Marigold gasped. “Nightmares, more like,”

Lily admitted.

“Ah, yes.” Miss Petunia bowed her head. “Yes. It is, indeed, as

I had feared.” “Yes, nightmares!” Marigold agreed, going pale. “I keep

dreaming that we’re coming to the end of a case and — and then -

everything starts going wrong. Terribly wrong.

“Awful things start happening.” Lily stirred uneasily. “People we

thought were our friends show themselves as enemies. People we thought

we were helping aren’t grateful. Every hand turns against us.”

“And we all die,” Miss Petunia said. “Horribly.” “Petunia! You don’t

mean you’re having them, too?” Marigold cried.

“Time to change our diet,” Lily said. “No more cheese at bedtime. Get

more exercise. Good healthy fresh air will blow all those demons away.

“I think not,” Miss Petunia said. “I fear the problem is far more

deep-rooted than that. It strikes at the core of our very existence. Our

continuing existence.”

“Oh, Petunia!” Marigold’s blue eyes brimmed with the remembered tears of

terrified awakenings. “What can you mean?”

“Got to put a stop to it,” Lily said gruffly. “Can’t go on like this.”

“Can you stop it, Petunia?” Marigold’s trusting eyes turned to her

eldest sister, fount of all knowledge and support. “How?”

“Why?” Lily wanted to know. “Why should this be happening?”

“There, indeed, is the nub of the matter,” Miss Petunia said slowly. “I

fear that our Chronicler I will not call her our Creator, for, surely,

we have always existed in a life of our own - has grown tired of us. At

the moment, she is merely playing

with the idea… toying with us… but I fear that we are coming to the

parting of the ways.” “Oh, Petunia!” A small shriek escaped Marigold.

“Whatever shall we do?”

“We shall survive,” Miss Petunia said grimly. “At whatever cost.

“Quite right.” Lily flexed her muscles.

“Not yet, dear.” Miss Petunia laid a soothing hand on her sister’s arm.

“First we must consider our options and come to a democratic decision.”

“Well said!” Lily straightened her back and glared around challengingly.

“So what do we do?”

“Oh, dear!” Marigold burst into tears. “It’s all so terrible! I can’t

bear it!”

“There, there, old thing.” Lily patted her heaving shoulders awkwardly.

“Don’t take on so. It will come out all right in the end.”

“I don’t see how,” Marigold choked. “If our - our Chronicler

- wants to get rid of us “Someone else will take us up,” Miss Petunia

said firmly. “Oh, Petunia!” Marigold raised her tear-drenched face

hopefully. “Do you really think so?”

“Our fans will insist on it,” Miss Petunia said confidently. “And our

publishers,” she added as an afterthought. “We are far too popular to be

allowed to … to…” She found herself unable to complete the sentence;

the enormity of the thought was too much for her. She closed her eyes

briefly.

“Steady on,” Lily said. “It isn’t going to happen. We won’t let it.”

“You’re right, of course.” Dear Lily, always so supportive. Miss Petunia

opened her eyes again and almost smiled. “There is no question but that

a new Chronicler will emerge to continue the relating of our adventures.

It’s done all the time. Look at Miss Anastasia Mudd - she’s carrying on

stronger than ever.

“Yes…” Marigold looked doubtful. “But will it be that easy for us?

Might not Lorinda Lucas fight the idea? And she does hold the copyright.

Miss Mudd is a different case. They had to find a new Chronicler for her

because her old one died.”

“Precisely,” Miss Petunia said.

“Oh, Petunia, what can you mean?” Marigold’s voice quavered.

“As I have said, we are in a life-or-death situation. We must face that

fact and prepare to act accordingly. If the choice is between our

Chronicler and ourselves…”

“Petunia!” Marigold buried her face in her hands. “You mean -?” Lily

gave a long low whistle. “Precisely,” Miss Petunia said again. “I fear

we are left with no other choice in the matter. Lorinda Lucas m u s t

d

I

e.

She had never written that! Not one word of it!

The pages slid from Lorinda’s nerveless fingers and slithered across the

carpet with the dry rustling sound of a snake gliding through the

undergrowth.

Had she?

Lorinda backed away from the scattered pages even as Had-I and But-Known

advanced to inspect them.

No! Her mouth shaped the word soundlessly. No! Something struck her in

the back and she gave a muffled shriek before realizing that she had

backed into the wall.

But-Known gave a final sniff at the papers and seemed to understand that

she was needed elsewhere. She strolled over and brushed against

Lorinda’s ankles, offering comfort.

“Oh, But-But.” She bent and gathered the little calico into her arms,

holding her close. But-Known twisted to stroke her head along Lorinda’s

chin. The little body throbbed and a soft deep purr rose like a

benediction. Lorinda hugged her tighter.

I can’t be going mad. Can I?

The dark terror lurking at the back of every human mind assailed her.

She clung to But-Known and looked around her little study, hub of her

new home, her peaceful ordered life. Was it all about to implode on her?

Had the tenuous link with reality snapped? She earned her living from

her imagination; was the mind that had given her that imagination now

turning on her like some rogue cell battering at an immune system that

was failing to contain it?

Her imaaination - was that it? Surely, she could not have read what she

thought she had read. She was overtired, stressed - her imagination was

playing tricks on her. Her imagination - not her mind. Just a little

blip. Perhaps the onset of a nervous breakdown? No, that wasn’t a very

reassuring thought, either. Nor was the next thought she had.

She was going to have to read those pages again. Make sure that they

actually said what she thought they had said.

She forced herself to approach the scattered pages, fighting down the

dire realization that she was in a no-win situation. It was bad if the

pages remained as she had first read them; it would be worse if they

didn’t.

“All right, move.” She shifted Had-I, who was sitting on two

of the pages, putting But-Known down beside her. The pages shook only

slightly in her hands as, carefully looking at nothing but the page

numbers, she put them in the right order. Then she retreated to sit at

her desk and stare into space for a long moment before she looked at

them again.

Yes, they were the same. Unexpectedly, she was aware of a feeling of

relief, mingled with a growing anger.

This was some sort of elaborate joke. It had to be. And it wasn’t funny.

But who would do such a thing? And how had they known-?

She rose abruptly and crossed to the filing cabinet. It looked the same.

One didn’t tuck a betraying scrap of paper into the crack of a drawer or

paste a hair across it in ordinary life. Only in the sort of books she

and her colleagues wrote - and any one of them could imitate each

other’s style for a few pages.

She pulled out her Final Chapters file and immediately knew that someone

had gone through it. The gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses were missing.

Miss Petunia had come back to reclaim her property!

Lorinda pushed the thought away. She must not give in to such an idea.

She was not completely mad. Not yet. While she could still function, she

must. And when she found the perpetrator of this abysmal joke…

She thrust the file back into place and took a large manila envelope

instead. She put the counterfeit chapter into it and looked around for a

safe place to hide it.

The cats watched with great interest as she pried up a corner

of the carpet and slid the envelope to lie flat beneath it. Not very

original, perhaps, but what was the point of that when the joker who

wrote those pages probably knew as much about crime and concealment as

she did?

She should have hidden the pince-nez better. She should never have put

them in that file. She had put them there, hadn’t she? Without them, she

could not prove they had ever existed. But they had. She could not have

hallucinated such a thing. Could she? She could see them now, even down

to the tiny “I k’ imprinted in the gold rim.

Unfortunately, no one else could see what was in her mind’s eye. And she

would sound like a fool if she tried to tell anyone about it. That was

what the joker would be counting on.

Had-I walked gingerly over the replaced carpet, testing it with

tentative paws, as though it might collapse beneath her. But-Known sat

on the desk, looking down on her intrepid sister and giving her familiar

impression of a Victorian Miss wringing her paws at the recklessness of

a daredevil.

Lorinda tested that patch of carpet herself, treading on it firmly.

There was no telltale rustle of paper and no obvious difference in the

thickness of the carpet. It would do.

The best way to handle the situation now was to ignore it, give no sign

that she had ever seen those pages, and disappoint whomever was waiting

for some sort of reaction from her.

An unpleasant feeling remained with her. Perhaps because Someone had

violated the privacy of her home as surely as any burglar: sat at her

desk, written on her machine - hijacked her characters. Although the

escapade could be written off as a joke if anyone admitted it, there was

an underlying malice that was disquieting. Someone had read through her

files, invaded her home in her absence.

Who? Not Freddie. Automatically, she exonerated her friend. But who?

She had been in London for the past week, attending to all the errands

she had been postponing since her move to the country. A visit to her

dentist, giving a talk at a suburban library, lunch with her agent,

doing research at the London Library, dinners with friends and catching

up with theatregoing. She had even done some Christmas shopping. The

week had sped past and she had enjoyed it thoroughly, knowing that

Freddie would be looking after the cats.

It had never occurred to her that someone might be needed

to watch the house. Freddie had the only duplicate keys. She would never

have allowed a stranger inside, probably not even a friend. Of course,

there was always that time-honoured pretext: “I loaned her a book and I

need it back.” Yes, even Freddie might have fallen for that one. She

would have to find out if anyone had tried it.

If anyone else was involved. The quiet terror stirred at the back of her

mind again. If she hadn’t written that chapter herself before she went

up to London and then forgotten about it, blotted it out of her memory.

People could do things like that.

But they were cases of split personalities, perhaps even multiple

personalities. Fighting against themselves, hating themselves, doing

strange things to punish themselves for transgressions only they knew or

cared about. She couldn’t be one of those - could she? She drew a deep,

unsteady breath; then another, somewhat steadier. She must not give in

to these thoughts. That way lay madness. If madness was not already…

Had-I and But-Known, who had been curled up on the corner

of the desk, suddenly sat up and turned towards the doorway, eyes bright

and alert, seeing, as cats do, something invisible to the human eye. The

back of her neck prickled. She watched the empty doorway with

apprehension.

Had-I abruptly stood and leaped to the floor, followed by But-Known.

They advanced to the door in time to greet Roscoe as he sauntered in and

touched noses with them. “Oh, Pud.” Lorinda went limp with relief. “I

didn’t hear the catflap.” Left to himself and without being harried by

his female friends, Roscoe could negotiate the catflap, moving slowly

and taking his time.

The wild thought swept into her mind and she dismissed it instantly. Of

course, it wasn’t possible for anyone to squeeze in through the catflap.

Poor Roscoe could barely make it himself and he was nowhere near the

size of an adult human being - or even an adolescent human. Apart from

which, adolescents entered with intent to remove, not add to, the

contents of a house.

The cats finished their silent communion and turned to look

at her with faintly accusing stares. What had they been saying to each

other? And why were we wasting so much time, energy and money in trying

to contact whatever might exist in outer space when we couldn’t even

communicate properly with the warm friendly creatures living beside us?

I can explain everything, she felt like saying defensively. But she knew

that she couldn’t - and so did they.

The ring of the telephone came as a lifeline. She snatched it up

quickly. “Hello?”

“Oh, good, you are back. Freddie wasn’t quite sure - “Macho, yes.” She

had not realized how much she had tensed until she felt herself relax.

“Yes, I got back late last night. And I’ve been out shopping this

morning, replenishing the larder.”

“Good … good.” Macho sounded somewhat abstracted. “Er … have a nice

time in London?”

“Oh, yes. Saw a lot of friends, got a lot of things done. I’m glad to be

back, though.” Surprisingly, she found that she meant it; the place was

beginning to feel like home. At least, it had been. “I haven’t caught up

with Freddie yet. What’s been happening while I’ve been gone? Have I

missed anything interesting?”

There was a curious silence at the other end of the line. “Oh …

nothing much,” he said eventually. “We’ve all got invitations to an

early Christmas Party at Dorian’s on the nineteenth, because he’s off on

a cruise over the holidays. If yours hasn’t arrived-“

“I haven’t gone through my post yet.” She glanced at the pile of

envelopes on her desk. “I was planning to do that this evening.”

“Oh … good, you’ll find it then. he was elaborately casual. “I don’t

suppose you’ve seen Roscoe anywhere around?”

“He’s right here with the girls,” she said. “He came in a few minutes

ago.

There was an explosive exhalation of relief. “Macho, what is it?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. I’m glad to know he’s there. I haven’t seen him

all afternoon. I was getting - I mean

“I was just about to open some of the gourmet cat food I brought back

from London for a treat for them,” she said. “Why don’t you come over?

You can have a drink, of course.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I will. Thanks. I’ll be right over.” He put the phone

down.

She had just reached the kitchen when he appeared at the back door. He

looked over his shoulder, then caught the door before she opened it

fully and slid through the narrow aperture. Inside, he stood with his

back against the wall and slowly turned his head to scan the room.

“Macho, what’s wrong?” She was shocked by the change in his appearance.

In the week since she had last seen him, he had grown haggard with dark

shadows under his eyes. Furthermore, although it was a pleasantly misty

mid-December day outside, with the red tinge of the setting sun

colouring the mist, Macho was behaving like someone out of a film noir.

“Wrong?” For a moment, he was his old fussy self. “Why should you think

there’s anything wrong?” Then the invisible atmosphere settled round him

again. He stared at the far doorway with haunted eyes, a fugitive

wrapped in the deep gloom of a perpetual midnight, with danger lurking

in every shadow. “Ah! There you are!” He dashed across the room as the

cats appeared in the doorway and scooped up Roscoe, holding him close.

“I haven’t seen you for hours.”

Roscoe looked up in mild surprise at finding himself thus clasped to his

master’s bosom. He stretched up to touch noses with Macho and began

purring.

Had-I and But-Known strolled over to sit at Lorinda’s feet and stare

meaningly at the small stack of gourmet cat-food trays she had brought

them. If it was cocktail time for humans, it was treats time for

felines.

“Game with turkey.” Lorinda picked up the top container and read the

contents. “How does that sound to you?”

It sounded good to Roscoe. He twisted free of Macho’s arms and hit the

floor, bouncing over to take his place beside the others.

“So, what’s been going on while I’ve been away?” Lorinda divided the cat

food into three neat portions, then glanced down doubtfully at Roscoe.

He was watching her in bright-eyed anticipation, licking his chops. He

could polish off one of those small containers all by himself.

“Hasn’t Freddie filled you in yet?” Macho sounded surprised. “I still

haven’t seen Freddie.” And that was unusual; she had expected to see or

hear from Freddie before this. Of course, she had arrived home last

night too late for visiting and perhaps Freddie had rung this morning

while she was out shopping.

“Freddie isn’t looking too well lately,” Macho said. “She seems

a bit… stressed.” “Oh?” That was surely the pot calling the kettle

black. Perhaps Macho hadn’t looked in a mirror lately. Lorinda set the

saucers down on the floor. Had-I inspected the size of her portion and

gave her a wounded look. “You can have seconds, if you want,” she told

her, then led Macho into the sitting room while the cats hunched over

their treat.

“What would you like?” If she poured fast, they might have time for a

few sips before the cats came in to demand more.

“What do you have?” He peered suspiciously at the small collection of

bottles. “There’s no tequila there, is there?”

“Sorry, no. Do you want some?”

“God, no!” He shuddered. “I never want to see or hear of the stuff

again!” He spoke with bitter vehemence and looked over his shoulder

again as he did so. Lorinda wondered if that was becoming a nervous tic.

“I’ll have a dry sherry,” he decided. “A large one.” “Trouble with the

new book?” she asked sympathetically, handing it to him and pouring one

for herself.

“The publishers want to call it Blondes Die Screaming”.” He took

a deep swallow and brooded into his glass. There’s no blonde in the book

and I told them anyone would die screaming when a serial rapist-murderer

went to work on them.” “What did you want to call it?”

“Does that matter?” He was in a mood. “I’m only the author.” He flung

himself into an armchair and stared into space. After a moment, he

twitched and looked over his shoulder. “What was that?”

It was only the sound of cats’ dishes moving around the kitchen floor as

tongues scraped to get every last morsel off them. If Macho couldn’t

identify that familiar sound, he must be in a bad way.

“Macho, what is it?” She tried again. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Do? Do?” He gave a snarling bark of mirthless laughter worthy of his PI

hero in a cornered moment. “There’s nothing anyone can do. Except -” He

raised his head and looked at her strangely.

“Yes?” she encouraged.

“Lorinda, if anything … happened to me, you’d take care of Roscoe,

wouldn’t you? I mean, adopt him. He gets on so well with your two, it

wouldn’t be like going to a stranger. I think he’d be happy here.

“Macho, are you ill?” Dying? she meant. Had he been informed that some

fatal disease was unexpectedly numbering his days?

“No, no.” He caught her thought. “Not that. It’s just that I may

be put - have to go - away.” “Put away?” She pounced on his slip of the

tongue. “Macho, what is it? What have you done?” He was an erratic

driver, but usually quite careful. Had he killed someone in a moment of

inattention in the night fog? A hit-and-run? She could visualize him

panicking when he realized his victim was dead and instinctively bolting

for home and safety. Then, with time for reflection, realizing the full

horror of his position (MAcHo MAGEE RUNs AND HIDEs, the tabloids would

scream) would dawn on him. With his knowledge of police procedures,

knowing that they were waiting for the results of their forensic tests

to filter through, wondering what evidence he might have left behind -

flecks of paint, tyre treadmarks, hairs from his beard - that

would lead inexorably to him, there was no wonder he was a nervous

wreck, constantly looking over his shoulder.

“Nothing!” he declared vehemently, as though suspecting the trend of her

thoughts. “I’ve done nothing. Yet. And nothing may ever happen. But, if

it should -” He looked at her pleadingly, “Roscoe-?”

“Prrrvaaa??” Roscoe padded into the room, drawn by the sound of his

name. He leapt into Macho’s lap and settled down purring. Had-I and

But-Known were right behind him. They looked at Lorinda thoughtfully,

then settled on the hearthrug in front of the fire. They had obviously

decided against agitating for any more food right now, realizing that

they would have to share it with Roscoe if they did.

“Of course I’ll take him.” She could reassure Macho on that point. “It

will be no trouble at all.” Apart from having to get a larger catflap

installed.

“Thank you.” He sank back in his chair, running his fingers through

Roscoe’s fur. “It may never happen,” he muttered. “It may all be just my

imagina’

“Macho!” There was something terribly familiar in his attitude. “What-?”

The back door slammed. “Had-I! But-But!” Freddie’s voice carolled. “Come

and get it!” The cats rose unhurriedly and strolled towards the kitchen.

“We’re in here, Freddie,” Lorinda called. “Come and have a drink.”

“Oh, no!” Freddie appeared in the doorway, looking guilty. “You’re back.

I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have burst in like that if I’d known. I thought

you were coming back tonight.”

“Last night,” Lorinda said. “Don’t worry, it’s all right.” What was not

all right was Freddie’s appearance. She looked grey and drawn. What was

going on around here?

The cats, sensing that they were not about to get another feed, turned

and went back to their spot before the fire.

“Are the Jackleys still fighting?” Lorinda asked. “They’re trying, but

some of the old fire has gone.” Freddie curled up on the sofa. “Jack

still has one arm in bandages - he can’t throw things the way he used

to.”

“Maybe not, but they’re obviously disturbing your sleep again.”

“If you think I look bad,” Freddie said. “Wait till you see the others.

Gemma looks terrible - I think they let her out of hospital too soon.”

“What was wrong?” Lorinda felt guilty; she ought to have rung Gemma this

morning.

“Nothing the medics seemed to be definite about. They halfway agreed

with her own diagnosis of something she ate, but they didn’t rule out an

extreme allergic reaction to something, or even one of the new mystery

viruses that are breaking out all over.” “No one else seems to have

caught it,” Macho said. “So it was probably an allergy.”

“And Rhylla is really in trouble.” Freddie dismissed Gemma’s problem as

inconsequential. “Her son and daughter-in-law telephoned last week to

say they were having such a good time without the sprog that they’ve

booked themselves a second-honeymoon skiing holiday in Colorado over New

Year. She’s stuck with the brat and the rat until well into January -

and I don’t know which is upsetting her more.”

“Oh, no!” Lorinda was horrified. “What will that do to her deadline?”

“Nothing good,” Freddie said gloomily.

“Look on the bright side.” Macho cheered up for the first time

all afternoon. “It may upset Rhylla - but it will drive Plantagenet

Sutton absolutely crazy.

“That’s right.” Freddie also brightened. “He hates rats. Funny that,

you’d think he’d have some fellow-feeling for them.”

Had-I’s ears twitched and she raised her head. “Go back to sleep,”

Lorinda advised. “Boswell is out of bounds.” Had-I lowered her head

slowly, with the air of a cat who had her own ideas about that.

“I thought I’d drive over to Marketown for some shopping,” Freddie

announced. “Either of you care to come along?”

“Now?” Macho looked askance. He might have a hero who acted on impulse -

a door kicked down here, a jaw broken there - but he preferred to plan

his own days well in advance. “Say… ten minutes?” Freddie offered.

“Two will do it.” Lorinda was already on her feet. “Just let me grab my

coat and bag and I’ll be right with you.”

“Sorry-” she heard Macho say as she left the room. “But I want to finish

a chapter before dinner. Another time…”

it was not until Lorinda was safely tucked into the passenger seat

beside Freddie that it occurred to her that it might not be wise to

leave the house unattended. Dear as the cats were, they were of no use

as watchdogs.

But the car was rolling smoothly down the High Street and

it was too late to do anything about the situation except worry. She

wished she had not thought of it. She turned to make a remark to Freddie

and gave a muffled shriek.

Freddie was driving with her eyes closed. “What is it?” Freddie’s eyes

flew open, she looked fearfully in the direction of the graveyard they

were passing. The car swerved. “Did you see it?”

“See what?” Lorinda was startled. There was genuine terror in Freddie’s

eyes as she stared deep into the old graveyard where the mist was

thickest. “Freddie, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing!” There was an echo of Macho’s anxious evasion in

Freddie’s immediate defensive denial. “Why should anything be wrong?”

“Freddie! Watch the road!” The front tyres scraped against the kerb.

“Sorry.” Freddie braked violently, then they lurched backwards. “Not

paying attention. I’ll be all right as soon as we get on the open road.”

“I hope so.” Lorinda bit down on a sharper remark. Freddie was still

looking fearfully over her shoulder at the old graveyard. It was clearly

not a moment for either levity or reproach. Freddie was deeply

disturbed.

“Freddie -” A sudden thought disquieted her. “Don’t tell me the old

graveyard is haunted!”

“All right.” Freddie returned her attention to the road. They rounded a

bend and the graveyard was out of sight. “I won’t tell you.”

“Well … is it?” She remembered Freddie’s strange attitude towards

the graveyard when she had been walking Gemma’s dogs, just before she

went up to London.

“Who knows?” Freddie shrugged. “Stranger things may have happened in

Brimful Coffers. I wouldn’t put anything past this bloody place.”

“But what is it?” She tried to pin Freddie down. “If there were any sort

of legend about the place, surely Dorian would have told us about it?”

“Told us? He’d have seen to it that we were charged extra for the

privilege.” Freddie’s bravado was growing, the farther away from the

graveyard they travelled.

“Have you seen whatever it is?” Lorinda would not be diverted. “Has

anyone else seen it?”

“No one is admitting it, not that I’d blame them.” Freddie shrugged

again. “In fact, the subject has never been raised. I don’t blame anyone

for that either.”

“But is there anything to talk about?” A spectral sighting might explain

Macho’s curious behaviour - although not, perhaps, his intense anxiety

over Roscoe. In the annals of haunting, human beings were often menaced,

but not animals. It took vampires for that.

“Perhaps someone is playing jokes.” Lorinda put forward the idea

cautiously. Misery loves company and she realized that she would be a

lot happier if she thought she wasn’t the prankster’s only target.

“Ha-ha-ha,” Freddie said bitterly. “I may die laughing.” “But what

exactly have you?” - Freddie swerved the car sharply, throwing her

against the seatbelt, cutting off her breath.

“You had the right idea,” Freddie said. “Get out of this place for a

while, sweep the cobwebs out of your brain and come back with a fresh

perspective.”

“I’m not sure I could claim-“

“Maybe I ought to go up to London for a week or two myself.” Having

changed the subject, Freddie was not going to go back to it. “Tell me

what show I ought to see.

,8

It was days before Lorinda could force herself to take up work on the

book again. Had-I and But-Known watched with interest as she approached

the desk, taking one step backward for every two steps forward. They had

not seen this performance before.

“All right, all right,” she assured them. “I’ll get there. Don’t rush

me.”

It didn’t help that the cats had decided that their favourite spot to

curl up was the place on the carpet beneath which the envelope lay

hidden. They weren’t trying to keep her attention focused on the spot,

she knew, and no one who came into the study would think anything

untoward about it. They were probably settled there because the envelope

and pages provided another layer of insulation, making that spot on the

carpet slightly warmer than the rest of it.

She hesitated over the pile of paper beside her typewriter, and lifted

the top sheet with a hand that trembled only slightly. It was blank. She

quickly riffled through the other pages. Blank, all blank. She exhaled a

quiet sigh of relief. The cats shifted into a more comfortable position

and waited for her to sit down in her office chair. They seemed to relax

when she did so. It had been several days since she had occupied her

familiar place. All was right with their world again. What about hers?

Cautiously, she began to tap at the keys, still half fearful that

control might be snatched away from her. After a few paragraphs, the

knot in the pit of her stomach began to loosen. Miss Petunia settled her

pince-nez firmly on the narrow bridge of her long thin nose, Lily

growled, Marigold tossed her red-gold curls and burbled, and none of

them showed any signs of taking on a sinister life of their own.

With increasing confidence, Lorinda settled down to making up for lost

time. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, she scarcely noticed when the

sky began growing darker.

The cats grew restive. Had-I strolled over, head-butted her ankles and

eyed her lap, inaccessible since the chair was pushed well under the

desk.

“Later,” she said absently to Had-I’s protest. But-Known knew better

than to try to disturb her, but was equally disgruntled. Nose to nose,

the cats communed for a moment, then turned and left the room

purposefully. Lorinda barely registered the subsequent plop of the

catflap as she contiued working.

When, at last, she raised her head and came back to the present, the

room beyond the desk lamp was dark. In the early-night blackness

outside, lighted windows glowed in Macho’s cottage and in the larger

semidetached occupied by Freddie and the Jackleys.

Lorinda sighed, stretched and pushed back her chair. As though that were

a signal, the doorbell and the telephone rang simultaneously.

“Hello?” The phone was nearest. “Hold on a minute, will you? The

doorbell’s ringing. I’ll answer it and get straight back to you.

“Oh-oh!” It was unmistakably Freddie’s voice. “I’ll get right over

there. You may need reinforcements.

“What?” But Freddie had already rung off. The doorbell rang again, more

insistently.

“I’m coming!” she called, hurrying down the stairs to throw open the

door.

“I thought you might need some help.” Macho stepped inside and looked

around - at floor level. “Where are they?”

“What on earth -?” She could see Freddie hurrying up the path with an

anxious expression on her face.

“keep calm and don’t worry,” Freddie said quickly. “If the pugs had done

it, Gemma might be in trouble but, remember, a cat owner is not

responsible for anything her cats do. That’s the law.”

“Do? Law?” That sinking feeling was back in the pit of her stomach.

“What have they done now?”

“She doesn’t know yet,” Macho said. “They haven’t..” Flip-flop…

flip-flop… The catflap sent its familiar message, followed by a

questing, “Mrraahhqarrmm?”

“In here -” Lorinda began, but Freddie and Macho were already rushing

for the kitchen door. She followed, more slowly, in their wake. “Not in

here, you little wretch!” Freddie said. “Not on the nice clean carpet.”

There was a muffled indignant feline protest as Freddie executed some

fancy footwork, blocking the threshold.

“Oh, no!” Lorinda had a full view of the scene now: two triumphant cats

standing over one plump furry white body with glazing red eyes.

“i saw it from across the street,” Macho said. “I shouted at them, but

they paid no attention.”

“They wouldn’t,” Freddie said. “Not even Lorinda could have stopped them

at that point.”

“You saw it, too?” Lorinda asked faintly.

“It was hard to miss. Clarice’s screams were enough to wake the dead.”

“Oh, no!” Lorinda flinched as the telephone shrilled. “If that’s Rhylla,

what can I say?”

“Just grovel,” Freddie advised. “And remember, it’s not your fault.”

“Hello…?” Lorinda breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, Elsie … Yes …

yes, I know. They’ve just come in with it … yes. Yes, it looks very

dead … Well, thanks for trying to warn me.” She had barely replaced

the receiver when the phone rang again.

“Hello… ? Oh, Jennifer… right past the bookshop, did they? Yes, yes,

of course I want to know. They’re back now and they’ve brought it with

them. Thanks, anyway.” She began to replace the receiver, then thought

better of it and set it down beside its base.

“What did you do?” she asked the cats bitterly. “Take a lap of honour

with the damned thing?”

Had-I wriggled her shoulders and preened; she was delighted with

herself. But-Known sensed criticism and moved a few inches away from her

sister, distancing herself.

“Prt’ryaaaah?” Had-I began to notice that she was not receiving the

appreciation that was her due. She reached out and prodded the limp

white lump. “Prrrraaaah?”

“Yes, yes, good girl.” Macho bent and patted her head consolingly. It

was all right for him, he didn’t have to face the full brunt of the

social horrors in store. Lorinda shuddered.

“Well, she is,” Macho defended. “If the place were overrun by

an infestation of rats, you’d be bloody glad to have her on duty. She

isn’t to know the difference between a pet rat and a wild one. She might

even have thought the rat was attacking Clarice. If it had been, she’d

have been a heroine.” “Good scenario,” Freddie said. “Would you like to

try to explain

it that way to little Clarice?” “Perhaps after she’s calmed down a bit,”

Macho said. Lorinda shuddered again. The doorbell rang more insistently.

But-Known backed a little farther away from Had-I and her victim.

“I’ll get the door,” Freddie said.

“Now what do we do?” Lorinda asked despairingly. “When we lost one of

the hamsters at school,” Macho said, “we found it distracted the boys’

attention wonderfully if we gave it a full military funeral. Matron,” he

added hopefully, “always sewed a nice black velvet shroud for it.”

“You can forget that one,” Freddie said, returning. “I wouldn’t even sew

for myself, let alone a dead rat. And neither would Lorinda.”

“Who was it?” Lorinda asked.

“Nemesis!” Freddie rolled her eyes heavenwards. “We’ve just paused to

blow our little nose and dry our tears. They’ll be with us in a minute.”

Had-I, with a thoughtful look, got up and strolled away. But-Known had

already disappeared. The abandoned corpse lay in the centre of the

kitchen floor.

“BoSWELL!” The agonized cry tore through the air, propelling Clarice

into the room and to her knees by Boswell’s side. She burst into noisy

anguished sobs.

Rhylla came into the room more slowly, a long-suffering look on her

face. She watched her granddaughter’s histrionics with a certain wry

amusement. “You wouldn’t think, would you,” she remarked sotto voce,

“that she’s only had the thing three weeks? She originally wanted a Gila

monster, but her mother, I’m happy to say, put her foot down.”

“Boswell … Boswell…” The broken-hearted wail rose and fell. “My poor

little Boswell.” The scene was rather marred by a sudden sidelong glance

from Clarice to gauge the effect she was having on her audience.

“Is she going into the theatre when she grows up?” Freddie asked with

interest. “She’d do a smashing Lady Macbeth.”

“More of a touch of East Lynne there,” Macho observed critically.

“”Dead, dead, and never called me Mother” - you know. The Drama Society

did it at school one year.

Two small furry faces peeked around a corner and wisely decided to

withdraw again. The sobbing continued unabated.

“Would she like a glass of water?” Lorinda offered diffidently.

“Fortunately, she’s too young for anything else,” Rhylla said.

“I, however, am not - and I would appreciate a large measure of the

strongest liquid you have on hand. Or perhaps Macho would donate one of

his slugs of tequila.”

“That isn’t funny!” The colour drained from Macho’s face, his eyes

blazed.

“Well, I’m sorry.” Rhylla was taken aback. “I meant Macho, your

character. I know you wouldn’t have the stuff in your house.”

“Who told you that?” His face burned with hostility. “You did.” Rhylla

was affronted. “Often.”

They glared at each other wordlessly for a moment, while Clarice’s sobs

dwindled to an occasional hiccough as she became distracted by the

sudden inexplicable animosity between the two adults. Lorinda took

advantage of her distraction to slide a paper towel over the small

corpse.

Clarice did not seem to notice. She rose slowly to her feet, seemingly

absorbed in some new thought. She raised her head and faced her

grandmother challengingly.

“Now can I have a Gila monster?” she demanded. “Over my dead body!”

Rhylla snapped.

For an instant, something nasty flashed in the depths of Clarice’s eyes.

If looks could kill, that Gila monster would have been riding on her

shoulder in the morning.

“Keep looking at me like that, young woman, and you won’t get your

pocket money, either!” Already in a bad mood from Macho’s unwarranted

attack, Rhylla was not prepared to tolerate dumb insolence.

Not for the first time, Lorinda envied the cats. How nice, how

wonderful, how peaceful to be able to melt away at times of strife and

not reappear until the atmosphere cleared and the world was calm again.

While Clarice seethed, trying to settle on a form of mutiny that would

not bring reprisals, Macho had recovered his composure. With a

conspiratorial nod to Lorinda, he slipped behind Clarice, scooped up the

remains of the late Boswe]l and made an inconspicuous exit through the

back door, closing it silently behind him.

He need not have bothered. The battle order had changed and Clarice

moved forward without a backward glance at her erstwhile pet. The threat

to her pocket money outweighed all lesser considerations.

“I’ll tell my mother,” she threatened.

“Go right ahead,” Rhylla said. “You can also tell her that I now

recognize some of the mistakes I made with her husband and I am not

about to repeat them with you. The one consolation was that they were

moving steadily towards the front door. If nothing impeded their

progress, they would soon be gone.

“Who was it,” Freddie murmured, “who said that children keep you young?”

“Someone who never had any!” Rhylla snapped, slamming the door behind

them.

“All this,” Freddie said into the silence, “and Dorian’s party tomorrow

night, too.

“I think I’ll go back to London,” Lorinda said. As though in protest,

Had-I and But-Known reappeared. After

a quick, almost disinterested, glance at the empty spot on the kitchen

linoleum, they cut their losses and followed Lorinda and Freddie into

the living room where they made it clear that it was time for laps and

loving. They barely contained their impatience while Lorinda poured

drinks.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, as Had-I sprang into her lap and curled up.

“I suppose Dorian meant well, but I don’t think this was one of his

better ideas.”

“Only you could give Dorian credit for meaning well,” Freddie said,

shifting slightly to accommodate But-Known. “I must admit I’m not

looking forward to this party. I keep remembering what happened at his

last one.”

“At least there won’t be a bonfire for anyone to fall into.”

“There’s always the fireplace.” Freddie would not be reassured. “He’s

sure to have a blazing fire in it.”

The party went smoothly, however, helped by the fact that Jack Jackley

was still unable to operate a camera. Unfortunately, he appeared to have

developed a form of paranoia; he stood with his back against the wall,

clutching a large drink he had poured from a fresh bottle, insisting on

breaking the seal himself, and obviously intended nursing through the

evening lest any other drink offered to him might be noxious.

“Honestly, he makes me sick!” Karla came up to Lorinda and Freddie, eyes

flashing. “He’s so afraid something’s going to happen to him. He didn’t

even want to come tonight.”

“Well, something did happen to him at the last party,” Freddie said.

“You can see his point.”

“If he hadn’t been so damned clumsy -” Karla gulped savagely

at her drink. “And then he tries to pretend he’s not so stupid by

claiming someone pushed him! Who’d want to? That’s what I asked him -

and he couldn’t answer me. Lorinda and Freddie stared thoughtfully into

middle distance, no more anxious to answer the question than Jack had

been, even though they were not in such a vulnerable position for

reprisals.

“Dorian’s parties are always so marvellous!” The uncritical voice at

their elbows made them turn, and quick bright smiles spread across their

faces. No author was going to dispute an issue with the proprietor of

the town’s only bookshop. Jennifer Lane beamed back at them. “He’s

certainly revitalized this town. He’s so full of wonderful ideas!”

They all agreed automatically and with some relief. At least she was

changing the subject. Not even Karla would continue her complaints in

front of a third party who was so innocently sure that they were all one

big happy family.

“Gemma, feeling better?” Lorinda turned her bright social smile on Gemma

Duquette, who was wandering past, clutching a glass of white wine. “Oh,

yes, thank you.” Gemma joined the group gratefully. “I’m still being

careful, though.” She raised her glass. “This can’t hurt me, I’m sure.

I’d have had orange juice, but I’m afraid it’s just that little bit too

acid for my stomach right now.”

“Can’t be too careful,” Freddie agreed. “You had a nasty do. What was

it, do you know?”

“I wish I did. Probably some new virus going around.” Gemma flinched as

Betty Alvin appeared beside them with a tray. “Oh, no, I couldn’t

possibly dare!” She regarded the king prawns and spicy dip with horror.

“It’s more than my life’s worth. I must be very careful, you know. I’m

really still convalescent.” The others had no such inhibitions and

rapidly depleted the tray. “I’ll get a refill,” Betty said reassuringly.

“There’s plenty more out in the kitchen.”

Perhaps there was, but the party was low on catering staff, Lorinda

noticed. Poor Betty and Gordie were doing overtime… again. Betty

didn’t seem to mind, but Gordie appeared vaguely discontented. He

hovered near Dorian, as though hoping for an introduction to the

prosperous-looking strangers Dorian was being so attentive to that they

had to be publishers. Poor Gordie. She wondered just what Dorian had

promised him when he lured him into moving to Brimful Coffers and acting

as general factotum, as well as his caretaking duties at Coffers Court.

There were fewer Londoners at this party. Presumably, now that the

weather was worsening, with freezing conditions and even snow forecast

for tonight, they preferred not to risk getting stranded in the country.

They would undoubtedly be back in full force for any parties Dorian gave

in the summer. There was, of course, a good sprinkling of townspeople.

Plantagenet Sutton, as had become usual, had usurped the bar, leaving

Dorian free for socializing. Bursts of ostentatiously coarse laughter

were resounding from another corner where three males from London were

obviously recounting the latest dirty jokes.

A slight movement at waist level caught Lorinda’s eye, and she saw

Clarice edging closer to the riotous group, anxious to be in on any

jokes going around. Since everyone had been invited to the party, there

had been no baby-sitter available and Rhylla had had to bring her along.

It was more than possible that Rhylla would regret it - especially if

Clarice picked up any of those jokes. Professor Borley appeared to be in

a quandary, looking from group to group, nearly overcome by an

embarrassment of riches. So many authors at his fingertips, as it were.

It was a hard choice to make; he swerved towards Lorinda’s group, then

detoured in response to something Plantagenet called to him. He went

over to the bar and they conferred earnestly. Rhylla was trying to be

nice to Jack Jackley, who did not appear to be appreciating her effort.

He looked around restlessly and almost smiled.

Rhylla followed his gaze, arriving at the source of his amusement just

as a further shout of raucous laughter brought a nervous, slightly

puzzled smile to Clarice’s face. Rhylla gasped and swooped across the

room to snatch a protesting Clarice away from the circle of deeply

embarrassed men who belatedly became aware of her presence.

“Wha-at?” Freddie’s outraged squawk wrenched Lorinda’s attention back to

the group.

“Oh, yes.” Jennifer smiled nervously. “Hasn’t he mentioned it

to you yet? I believe he’s going to announce it tonight. Just

informally, of course. He’ll announce it again at a proper launch, with

full media presence, once we have all the details finalized.”

“I’ll finalize him!” Freddie muttered.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Karla had brightened. “It sounds like a really great

idea to me.

“You’re not trying to work,” Freddie said. “I beg your pardon!” Karla

drew herself up huffily. “I am working my butt off. Especially since

Jack got home. I practically have to feed him half the time. He can’t

even cut his meat, the way his hands are.” There was more annoyance than

sympathy in her voice. It was clear that any help Jack got from his wife

was reluctant and under protest.

Freddie twitched her eyebrows and looked away. “It won’t be so bad,”

Jennifer said. “It shouldn’t interfere with your work.”

“I’m afraid I’ve missed something here,” Lorinda said softly to Freddie.

“What are we talking about?”

“I thought you were too calm.” Freddie did not bother to lower her

voice. “The crux of the matter is that Dorian is planning to turn

Brimful Coffers into a sort of Literary Disneyland-Cum-Zoo. With us as

unpaid employees and captive exhibits.”

“Wha-at?” Lorinda found herself echoing Freddie’s earlier incredulous

gasp.

“No, no, nothing of the sort. Freddie exaggerates.” Jennifer sent

Freddie an impatient glance. “Honestly, the schedule won’t be intrusive

and you needn’t participate in any of the events unless you want to.

There’ll be the usual signings at the bookshop as your new books are

published - you’d do that anyway. And giving the occasional talk to

tours passing through and perhaps joining them for drinks and dinner.”

“What tours?” Freddie asked ominously.

“Oh, just fans.” Jennifer shied back nervously. “People who really

admire you and your works. They’ll be small tours and only stay in town

a night or two before going on to take in the usual historical sites and

have a few days in London … and meet other authors in other places…”

She trailed off, perhaps sensing that her audience was not as

enthusiastic as she was.

“Did she just say what I thought she said?” Unnoticed, Macho had joined

the group.

“You heard.” Freddie was grim.

“Did you just arrive?” Lorinda tried for a more social tone. “I had to

… settle Roscoe first,” Macho said. “Isn’t he well?”

“He’s fine - and he’s going to stay that way.” Macho’s mouth tightened.

“What I want to know is what’s going on here?”

“We’re just finding out ourselves,” Lorinda said. “Treachery!” Freddie

glowered at Jennifer. “Sheer outright treachery. We’ve been set up!”

“Oh, no, you mustn’t think that.” Jennifer was sinking under the

combined weight of their disapproval. “I - I’ve explained it badly,

that’s all. When Dorian makes his announcement, it will all be much

clearer. “Dorian…” Macho shifted his brooding gaze to their debonair

host, now raising his glass as though in a toast to his companions. “The

plot thickens.”

“Raising the time-honoured question: since when have you lisped?”

Freddie also turned to glare at Dorian.

“Gad! He’ll be running school parties round next!” “No, no, not for

quite a long time yet, not until we really … get… going.” Jennifer

faltered to a stop as she realized she was making things worse.

“I promise you -” She tried again. “It won’t interfere with your work.

You can just give them a talk at the library and later their teachers

will take them on a walk around town. They’ll enjoy seeing where all the

real authors live.”

“Maybe they’ll enjoy seeing all the FoR SALE signs,” Freddie snarled.

“Oh, no! You can’t do that! Please!” Jennifer was stricken. “Hilda Saint

has already taken out a second mortgage to enlarge and refurbish her

guest house. And I’ve doubled my inventory in preparation.” She was

close to tears. “I may kill him,” Macho said thoughtfully. “You’ll have

to get in line,” Freddie snapped. Lorinda found herself too deep in

gloom to say anything. It was all very well for Freddie to talk glibly

of selling, but who could bear to go through all that upheaval again?

Apart from which, who was going to buy? The housing market was currently

deader than the victims in their books. That was why they had been able

to buy the desirable residences in Brimful Coffers at favourable prices.

The market might recover in time, but right now there was unlikely to be

anyone interested in buying.

“I don’t know what you’re all fussing about,” Karla said. “I think it’s

a great idea. You English don’t understand about publicity and public

relations. It’s not enough just to write the books any more - you have

to get out there and sell them!”

“I’m willing to get out there,” Freddie said. “I’m just not willing

to allow packs of strangers in here.” Karla looked exasperated as the

others nodded agreement. “You’ve got to make some concessions,” she

said. “Personally, I’ll be delighted to go along with any arrangements

Jennifer and Dorian care to make. And so will Jack.”

“Jack?” Jennifer looked somewhat less than enchanted at this assurance.

“does he write under his own name?”

“Not yet,” Karla said. “He’s concentrating on his photography right

now.”

He was concentrating on his drinking, actually. Jack and Plantagenet

were behind the makeshift bar and seemed to have struck up an unholy

alliance. Sniggering like schoolboys, they were lifting up the less

popular bottles, scrutinizing the labels carefully and pouring dollops

into an array of glasses lined up before them. They appeared to be

trying to invent a new cocktail. The contents of some of the glasses had

already acquired a lethal colour. Lorinda made a mental note to stick to

the champagne.

“Attention! Attention!” Dorian suddenly tapped the swizzle stick he

affected against a bottle, calling them to order. “Attention, everyone!”

The hubbub of conversation died down and faces turned towards him

expectantly.

“Here it comes,” Freddie muttered.

“Some of you -” He frowned in their direction. “Some of you may think

you already know what I’m going to say. But I think I may yet have a

surprise in store for you. “Make a change from his books.” Macho was

muttering, too. “Shhh!” Karla hissed and moved away, virtuously

distancing herself from her unruly companions. She turned her enraptured

gaze on Dorian, ostentatiously giving him her full attention.

“Crawler!” Freddie muttered.

“Shhh!” Gemma moved away to join Karla. Jennifer looked

as though she would like to, but the authors were part of her

stockin-trade and she was caught in the proverbial cleft stick.

The bottles continued clinking at the bar, an occasional snicker also

sounded. Jack and Plantagenet were having a wonderful time, perhaps a

better time than anyone else at the party. Karla flicked a disapproving

glance in their direction. Jack would undoubtedly hear more about this

when she got him home.

“Yes, well … for those of you who are interested -” Dorian dismissed

them. “And this is of great import to the real authors amongst us

Jack raised his head and glared at Dorian; he considered that working

with Karla made him an author, too. Gordie Crane flushed a deep red and

set his tray down on the nearest table with a thud. Plantagenet Sutton

seemed no less offended; presumably he felt that his two or three

Christmas-stocking fillers - scarcely more than booklets copiously

illustrated with whimsical drawings by his newspaper’s top cartoonist -

about wine put him in the “real’ author category.

“We have an exciting year ahead of us…” Dorian, happier now that he

had managed to offend a few guests, went on to announce what they had

already heard.

Most of them. Rhylla, who had been kept fully occupied with Clarice and

had not yet plugged into the gossip circuit, straightened abruptly. She

looked over to Freddie, as though for confirmation, and her mouth

tightened, her jaw jutted forward.

“But what you may not have heard,” Dorian concluded, “is that our

numbers are about to be swelled by yet another recruit to our happy

colony. Unfortunately, she can’t be here tonight so that I can introduce

her personally, but she will be with us in the course of the week,

direct from her triumphal tour of Australia and New Zealand. I know you

will all be delighted to welcome Ondine van Zeet into our midst.”

A bottle crashed to the floor and shattered. Heads turned towards the

bar, but Jack and Plantagenet were both standing motionless and

expressionless. It was impossible to tell which of them had dropped the

bottle. The audience began an automatic round of applause as they

realized Dorian had finished his speech.

“Who?” Unfortunately, Karla’s voice could still be heard. “Ondine van

Zeet.” Dorian strolled over to join them. “Otherwise known as the

Un-woman,” he added roguishly, anticipating her response.

“The Un-woman?” Karla walked right into it. “You mean -?” “No, no,

nothing like that,” he assured her. “You must know

of her and her Un-books.” He waited and was not disappointed. “Un-books?

You mean she isn’t really an author, either?” “Don’t be unfair,” Freddie

said to Dorian. “Ondine was just starting to be published in the States

when I left. There wasn’t the great storm of publicity she gets here

she’s just another author over there. It’s not surprising if Karla

hasn’t caught up with her yet.

“Ah, yes,” Dorian said. “Ondine is very popular in Britain and the

Commonwealth, but it sometimes takes the Americans a long time to catch

up with writers who aren’t home-grown. As we all know to our cost.”

“But all this Un stuff.” Karla frowned. “Even her name “That’s Ondine,

actually. Although the Americans will probably change the spelling -

they’re good at that - so as not to confuse the readers. Keep it all of

a piece, all Uns together.”

“You must have seen some of her titles.” Freddie took pity on Karla’s

bewilderment. “Unspilt Blood … Unloving Thoughts…”

“Undying Enmity,” Macho supplied. “Unwitting Accomplice…” Unlit

Candles…” Even Lorinda was able to come up with the titles.

“Untruths..

“Clever of her,” Dorian said. “It’s easier to keep up a series with

titles featuring the same prefix, rather than the same word, as so many

of them do. Gives her a lot more flexibility.” “Terrible woman,

terrible!” Plantagenet Sutton had come up behind them bearing a tray of

his experimental cocktails. “Not even a proper crime writer.

Three-quarters of her books are sloppy heavy-breathing romance. I’m

surprised at you, Dorian, and not a little disappointed. What were you

thinking of to allow her into our society?”

“She’ll add a certain amount of lustre,” Dorian said. “The locals and

the Colonials will be impressed - and so will the Americans when she

gets better known over there.

“I agree with Plantagenet.” Rhylla had joined them and it was turning

into an indignation meeting. “We were all settled down quite well and

now you’re bringing in a disruptive personality like her to join us.”

“She’s not that bad,” Dorian placated. “Anyway, you know she spends most

of her time out of the country. Now that she’s trying to break into the

American market, she’ll be here even less. She’ll really just use the

flat as a base of operations.”

“What flat?” Freddie asked suspiciously.

“She’s taking the last vacant flat in Coffers Court.” Dorian smiled

uneasily as Gordie walked by him with a tray of canapes and a bitter

glare. “Opposite Professor Borley - he’ll be glad to see her move in.”

“Hey, this is a party!” Jack interrupted. “We can worry about this dame

later. Let’s all have another drink now and relax and enjoy ourselves.

Pass them round, Plan.”

“Yes, yes.” The venomous glare should have told Jack that Plantagenet

did not like his name being shortened, but Jack was oblivious, intent on

mischief.

“We have concocted cocktails in honour of your characters, dear

friends,” Plantagenet announced, distributing glasses of strangely

coloured liquids that might have been the result of some ancient

alchemist’s failed experiments.

“A cider-based creation for our beloved Miss Petunia and her siblings -“

He extended a glass to Lorinda.

“Thank you.” Lorinda took the poisonous yellow substance, smelling of

sour lemon, with a wan smile and looked around for the nearest potted

plant.

“And a suitably ghostly concoction -” The next glass went to Freddie.

How had he managed to get that sickly grey colour? “In homage to our

dear Wraith.”

“Did you say ghastly?” Freddie accepted it absently, her gaze already

straying towards a nearby poinsettia.

There was a hiss of breath indrawn in wicked anticipation and a telling

glitter in Jack’s eyes as Plantagenet lifted another glass from the tray

and turned to Macho.

“A really macho drink for’ - his tone took on an exquisite irony - “a

really macho man.”

Recognizing mockery, susecting worse in store, Macho kept both hands

twisted around the glass he already held and stared with hostility at

the murky green liquid being offered to him.

“Go on,” Jack urged, as Plantagenet held out the glass. “We made it just

for you. We thought we might call it’ - he sniggered - “the Tequila

Torpedo.” Macho stared at it in fascinated horror. Something lurked at

the bottom of the glass, rolling lazily when Plantagenet jiggled the

glass like an impatient nanny forcing medicine upon a reluctant charge.

Macho’s jaw tightened, he quivered as he fought to keep his

self-control. “You’re gonna love it,” Jack insisted. “Come on, we want

to see you guzzle it like good old Macho Magee does: two or three long

gulps, then crunch, crunch, crunch on the little critter at the bottom.

“Best part of the drink,” he always…”

Macho snatched the glass from Plantagenet’s hand and hurled the viscous

green liquid over both men. Something small and round shot from the

glass and bounced across the floor to slither under a chair.

“Ooh!” Gasps of astonishment came from the onlookers, while the attacked

were momentarily too shocked to speak.

“Damn it all, man!” Plantagenet slammed the tray with its remaining

drinks down on a side table and began dabbing at the sticky green mess

on his shirt with his handkerchief.

“For God’s sake!” Jack used his tie to mop his chin. “It’s only

a Brussels sprout! Haven’t you got a sense of humour?” “No!” Macho

shouted, turning and dashing for the door. “No,

I haven’t!” The door slammed behind him with a force that rattled the

glasses.

“You know he doesn’t like tequila,” Freddie said reproachfully into the

silence.

9

CHAPTER TWENTY

“How can Lord Soddemall bear to live surrounded by the very water in

which his dear wife breathed her last?” Marigold shuddered as they

crossed the drawbridge to Soddemall Castle. “Surely, he ought to have

drained the moat, if only for a few weeks, to show some proper respect.”

“Since he was responsible for her death,” Miss Petunia said, “the

question of the delicacy of his behaviour is beside the point.”

“Delicacy?” Lily hooted. “Him? He’s moved the parlourmaid into the

master bedroom and they say she’s four months

preggers! Soddemall by name and Soddemall by nature.” She gave every

syllable full value.

“It’s pronounced “Small”, dear,” Marigold corrected. “All the guide

books say so.

“It will be pronounced “Felon” after we have given our proof of his

guilt to the Nob Squad from Scotland Yard,” Miss Petunia said sternly.

She raised the heavy iron door knocker and let it fall like the knell of

doom.

“Don’t know why we had to meet them here,” Lily grumbled. “A

confrontation,” Marigold said. “At the very place where poor Lady

Soddemall was discovered afloat in the moat.”

“Hello, you’re right on time.” They had not expected Lord Soddemall

himself to answer the door. In the background lurked a young woman whose

apron bulged forward suggestively. “We’re all down in the dungeon. Do

come in and Join us.” He turned and pressed a concealed button, a panel

swung inwards and they followed him through the secret door and down a

narrow stairway. Sure enough, the Nob Squad were all there.

“I trust you have considered my letter.” Miss Petunia advanced upon

Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing. “And the inescapable conclusion to

be drawn from it?”

“Eh?” Lord Clandancing said abstractedly. He reluctantly withdrew his

attention from the delicious curve of Lady Briony Fitzmelon’s ear as she

bent to the task of lightly dusting fingerprint powder over the surface

of an exhibit case. How had he so carelessly allowed her to slip away

into the uncaring arms of Viscount Unabridged, brilliant pathologist

though he was? “The conclusion’ - Miss Petunia saw no reason to beat

about the bush - “that Lord Ferdinand Soddemall murdered his wife!”

“No, no! Ferdie is a Lord,” Lord Clandancing said. “A Lord,” he repeated

slowly and distinctly. “He could never do such a thing. Not a Lord!”

“Generations of fine breeding are behind Lord Soddemall.” Dear Lady

Briony added her voice to his. “He is above suspicion!”

“Oh, I say,” Lord Soddemall bleated. “Thanks, awfully.” “Only natural,

Ferdie,” Lord Clandancing said with gentle reproof. “We could never

suspect you.

“These outsiders just don’t understand!” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn

Monteryn, newest member of the Nob Squad, exclaimed.

They all turned and looked at her. There was an unpleasant silence.

“We ought to be able to sort this out in very short order,” Viscount

Unabridged said. No one quite knew what a pathologist who had already

performed his allotted tasks was doing on the scene of an ongoing

investigation. Perhaps the way he was looking at Police Photographer

Faroness Silvergate might provide a clue to the initiated. It was not so

long ago that he had saved her life by an emergency tracheotomy after

some miscreant who objected to being photographed had shoved her zoom

lens down her throat. He had been unable to get the memory of the

bubbling gasp of her cut-glass voice and the slow bright welling of

oxygenated blood from the slit in her throat out of his thoughts ever

since. Oh, Sylvie…

“We can prove it!” Miss Petunia pulled the sheet of paper containing her

notes on the case from her handbag and waved it at them, trying to

distract their attention from each other. “Here now, what’s all this?”

Sergeant Sir Cuthbert detached the paper from her hand and perused it.

“They’re trying to frame Lord Soddemall!” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn

cried. “How disgraceful!”

“Can’t let “em get away with that,” Sergeant Sir Cuthbert said. He

looked to his superiors, but they were otherwise engaged.

“Briony, dearest Lady Briony,” Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing

murmured brokenly. “How can I explain? That mad night at Le Caprice with

Lady Laetitia meant nothing. Nothing…” “Unabridged,” Lady Briony

implored, ignoring Lord Clandancing. “Why did you never claim the last

dance at the HuntBall.

“Sylvie,” Viscount Unabridged whimpered. “I swear I never intended to

insult your mother. How could I have known whose riding boot was

thumping into my coccyx…?”

“Sir Cuthbert.” Baroness Silvergate turned to him. “Although you rank

below me, you fascinate me. No permanent alliance is possible, of

course, but might we come to some temporary.

“Lady Briony…” Sergeant Sir Cuthbert’s frame quivered with emotion as

he momentarily broke free of discipline. “I know I am unworthy of an

Earl’s daughter, but my heart is as faithful as any…” He did not

notice that Miss Petunia’s piece of paper had slipped from his hand, nor

that Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn had swooped upon it.

“I say,” Lord Soddemall remarked brightly to Miss Petunia and her

sisters. “Now that you’re here, would you like a proper tour of the

dungeon?” “Oh, yes, let’s!” Marigold’s eyes danced with excitement. “Oh,

thank you, Lord Soddemall.”

“Call me Ferdie,” he beamed.

“You two go ahead,” Miss Petunia said, watching Sergeant the Hon.

Jasmyn, who was perusing the paper with the carefully presented case

against Lord Soddemall set out clearly on it.

The pregnant parlourmaid followed Ferdie, Lily and Marigold, blocking

them off from Miss Petunia’s view.

“All working models…” She could hear Lord Soddemall explaining.

“Great-grandfather insisted on that when he inherited the title and

estate and began restoring the Castle. “Must have a working dungeon,” he

said. “Never can tell when it will come in useful.” Wise man,

Great-grandfather…” “This is incredible!” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn

gasped. “It almost seems possible!” She lowered the paper and regarded

Miss Petunia earnestly. “Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing must see

this!”

“Genuine guillotine,” Lord Soddemall trumpeted. “Straight from the

French Revolution. Small provincial model, I’m afraid, but it did the

work, all the same. We demonstrate it with cabbages…

“Excuse me, sir.” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn approached her superior. “But

I think this might be important, sir. It sets out all the salient points

in the case -

“Case? Case?” Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing shifted his gaze from

the soft beckoning curves of Lady Briony’s cheeks, of Lady Briony’s -

dare he think it? - breasts. “What case?” “The case against Ferdie,

sir.”

“Ferdie? There can’t possibly be a case against Ferdie. I know you’re

new to the game, Sergeant, but surely you of all people should

understand that. Ferdie is a Lord!”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn flinched under his

disapproval.

“Quaint padded kneeling bench … really quite comfy, I’m told. If you’d

like to try it…”

“Here!” The Hon. Jasmyn thrust the paper back at Miss Petunia. “Take

this! It’s useless! We need evidence that someone is trying to frame

Ferdie.”

“Some tourists try it… some don’t. Superstitious about guillotines, I

suppose … Ladies must be allowed their little squeamishnesses…

“I’m no sissy!” Lily declared stoutly. “I’ll try it!” “Lily!” Miss

Petunia started towards her sisters. “Lily, I don’t think that’s a very

good ide…”

THUd! A cabbage rolled across the dungeon floor. Only … it wasn’t a

cabbage … It was Lily’s head.

“Damn!” Lord Soddema]l said. “Old Croakins has overoiled the mechanism

again. How embarrassing. I say, I’m most terribly sorry.”

“Oh, Ferdie, bad luck!” Baroness Silvergate rushed over to console him.

“You must speak severely to Croakins.”

“Quite right.” Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing walked over more

slowly, carefully avoiding getting blood on his hand-made Leather shoes.

“Accidents happen in the home - and it’s carelessness like that that’s

responsible.”

“Better call the old quack, I suppose.” Lord Soddemall glanced

at Lily’s stricken sisters. “I say, don’t despair. They do marvellous

things with microsurgery these days.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Marigold brightened. “They’re always sewing arms

and legs back on.” A faint doubt clouded her eyes. “But … heads?”

“Umm, well…” Viscount Unabridged would not quite meet her eyes. “We’ll

do our best. You never can tell.”

“It was murder!” Miss Petunia said. “Cold-blooded deliberate murder!

Just as Lady Soddemall’s death was murder!”

“Now, now, mustn’t talk like that,” Sergeant Sir Cuthhert frowned.

“That’s slander - and a very serious offence. I expect His Lordship will

make allowances as you’re upset, but you mustn’t repeat the offence.”

“Of course,” Lord Soddemall said magnanimously. “Heat of the moment and

all that, what? Why don’t we ask Floribel to trot off and make you a

nice cup of tea? You’ll feel better then.” He patted the parlourmaid’s

rump as she moved off obligingly.

“Lovely girl, Ferdie,” Lord Clandancing said. “Isn’t there something

familiar about her?”

“Ah, you noticed? She’s Lord Dingdelling’s youngest daughter

- on the wrong side of the blanket, but breeding will out. I’m

planning to make her Lady Soddemall next week. Hope you don’t think

that’s too soon but, you see, we want the heir to be born in proper

wedlock.” “Ferdie! How marvellous!” … “Well done, old man!” … They

clustered around him, babbling congratulation. “You did say heir?”

“It’s a boy.” Ferdie blushed becomingly. “Floribel had a scan.

A son and heir. The future Lord Soddemall.” So that was it! The motive

for the disposal of the first Lady Soddemall, a woman who had borne no

child, no heir. Miss Petunia’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Marigold to

make sure she had grasped the significance of what had just been

revealed.

“Oh, Pet!” Marigold’s eyes were misty. “Isn’t it romantic?” “Don’t drink

the tea!” Miss Petunia whispered urgently as Floribel flounced back into

the dungeon bearing a laden tray.

“Oh, but, Pet, that would be rude,” Marigold said. “And after the future

Lady Soddemall has gone to so much trouble.”

Floribel set the tray down on an exhibit case and turned to blow a kiss

to Ferdie. An unspoken message seemed to pass between them as she did

so.

“Poor you.” She turned to Marigold. “I must say, you’re looking

a bit ragged. Would you like to freshen up?” “Oh!” Marigold’s hands flew

up to hide her burning face. Did she look so terrible that everyone had

noticed. “Yes, I would.”

“You wait here, Marigold,” Miss Petunia ordered. “I must speak

to Lord Clandancing - and then I’ll go with you.” “No need to wait,”

Floribel said easily. “There’s only room for one at a time in there

anyway. You reach it through the Iron Maiden - there’s a hinged door on

the other side. Here, I’ll show you. Just step inside…”

“Marigold!” Miss Petunia said warningly, spinning around just

in time to see her sister step into the Iron Maiden. “Oh, it’s so dark

in here!” Marigold gasped. “I hate to seem stupid, but I’m afraid I

can’t seem to find the catch

“Keep looking,” Floribel said encouragingly. “It’s right under your

fingers.

Slowly, inexorably, the spiked door began to close. “But where? I can’t

see … And it’s getting darker … Eeek!” “Marigold!” Miss Petunia

tried to dash to her sister’s side but, just as she passed Lord

Soddemall, her feet went out from under her. He caught her as she fell

and held her tightly. “Easy does it. We don’t want anything to happen to

you. “Let me go!” Miss Petunia struggled with him. “Help! Oh, help!

Something’s wrong with the mechanism!” Floribel clawed at the lid of the

Iron Maiden, but seemed only to be hastening its closure, rather than

preventing it. “EEEeeeeaaarrr,ah

“Sergeant!” Lord Clandancing ordered. “Do something!” Since

he hadn’t specified which sergeant, they both reached the Iron Maiden

just as the lid rammed home with a decisive thud.

Marigold stopped screaming.

“Good Lord!” Viscount Unabridged said. “It’s just not your day, Ferdie!”

“Oh, dear!” Floribel burst into tears. “I couldn’t stop it!” “Mustn’t

blame yourself, darling.” Lord Soddemall dropped Miss Petunia and raced

to his beloved’s side. “These things happen.”

“They happen rather often, it seems, in Soddemall Castle.” Miss Petunia

spoke through stiff lips.

“You’re right.” Lord Soddemall frowned. “I shall have to discipline

Croakins. He’s been much too free with the oiling can. Lucky this didn’t

happen on a day when the public are allowed in.”

“Croakins! That’s it!” Lady Briony’s eyes flared with inspiration. “He’s

the one who’s been trying to frame you, Ferdie!”

“I believe you’re right.” Viscount Unabridged nodded. “Overoiling the

mechanisms like that. He wanted accidents to happen - so that Ferdie

would be blamed.” “And he killed Lady Soddemall!” Lady Briony could see

it all now. “For years he had cherished a mad secret passion for her, as

these peasants must when living in close proximity to the grace and

breeding of their betters. At last, he could contain himself no longer.

He followed her when she went for her nightly stroll around the

battlements, declared himself and - and perhaps even dared to try to

kiss her! And when she so rightly repulsed him - he threw her from the

parapet to her death in the moat below.”

“That’s the solution!” Detective Inspector Lord Clandancing agreed.

“Good work, Lady Briony! He won’t escape us now. Ring for Croakins,

Ferdie. We’ll confront him with his villainy!”

“No, no,” Miss Petunia protested. “You’ve got it all wrong. The true

perpetrator of these hideous crimes is Lord Soddemall. Aided and abetted

by his … his paramour!”

“Pardon me for a moment, Lady Briony,” Lord Clandancing said tenderly.

“I must reason with this poor deluded creature.

“Noblesse oblige!” Lady Briony’s eyes shone. “Don’t be too hard on her,

my dear. These people don’t know any better.”

“But,” Sergeant the Hon. Jasmyn said, “she has collected some evid…”

She faltered to a halt as they all turned and glared at her.

“What do you know about it?” Lady Briony demanded. “You’re the newest

member of the team. You’re here on sufferance, really.”

“And off to a bad start,” Lord Clandancing frowned. “I’ve been meaning

to have a word with you about it. You aren’t really entitled to call

yourself an Honourable, you know. You’re only the daughter of a Life

Peer.”

“Oh!” Sergeant Jasmyn was cut to the quick. “How can you?” She pressed

her hand to her heart and paled.

“I say.” Lord Soddemall was at Miss Petunia’s side again. “You’re

looking a bit peaky. Have a cup of tea.”

“Good thinking, Ferdie,” Baroness Silvergate said. “We could

all do with a cup of tea.” “Not you,” Ferdie said quickly. “Thought I’d

break out the Napoleon brandy and champagne for us. A cup of tea will do

the old dear nicely, then I’ll have Croakins see her home. Get one last

job out of him before he knows we’ve rumbled him.”

“Good-oh!” Viscount Unabridged said happily. “I could do with

a drop of the old Napoleon.” “Come upstairs,” Floribel said. “We’ll be

so much more comfortable.” She wrinkled her nose at the rivulets of

blood on the floor. “It’s getting rather untidy down here.”

“That’s right, my love,” Lord Soddemall said. “Take our friends

upstairs. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve given this woman her tea.”

“No!” Miss Petunia tried to push away the hand bearing the cup to her

lips. “Not the tea!”

The cup crashed against her clenched teeth, the liquid spil]ed into her

mouth and cascaded down her chin. She fought in vain against swallowing

as the tide of tannin swept down her throat.

“Help!” Miss Petunia gurgled feebly. “Help!” “My instincts are as fine

as any of yours!” Jasmyn insisted as they filed from the dungeon. “I

have even refused a man who dared offer me only mere wealth. “Marry you,

a stockbroker?” I told him. “I may only be the daughter of a Life Peer,

but I have some standards!”…”

“Help…” “Help…”

“Oh, well said!” Baroness Siivergate applauded. “We may make something

of you yet. A suitable marriage … A younger son, of course…

“Help…” Miss Petunia could barely whisper now. “Oh, thanks awfully,”

Jasmyn said gratefully. She was the last

to follow the others up the stairs, as befitted her lowly rank. “Help..

.” The cry was barely audible, but there was only Lord Soddemall to hear

her. Miss Petunia felt herself being lowered to the floor. The voices in

the distance faded. There was no help from that quarter … if, indeed,

there ever had been.

This was.

T

h

e

E

n

d

“Take that!” Lorinda said to the figments of her imagination, rolling

the page out of her typewriter. Then, nervously, almost superstitiously,

she hesitated and looked upwards. Just in case a thunderbolt was on its

way. She was getting to be a bundle of nerves. Not as bad as Macho,

perhaps, as witness his performance the other night. Since then, he had

been incommunicado, shutting himself away in his house, refusing to

answer the doorbell or telephone. Even Roscoe hadn’t been out and

around.

For that matter, they had all pretty much kept themselves to themselves

over the past few days. It was as though the party had drained away all

the holiday spirit they might have had. Not a great deal, in any case.

Perhaps Dorian had had the right idea: escape to some foreign, warmer

clime and leave the rest of the world behind. An airline limo had

collected him shortly before the break of dawn this morning and he would

be flown to some Caribbean port to connect with a cruise ship and spend

the next fourteen days lazing in the sun.

On second thoughts, she was not so sure she would like it. While Dorian

might escape the festivities ashore, he would be a captive audience for

all the enforced holiday caperings aboard ship. The Christmas tree and

crackers, paper hats and turkey dinner, games and merrymaking with

strangers. In fact, it was most unlike Dorian to let himself in for such

a series of events. He would have done better to shut himself away, like

Macho, and let the holidays roll by without him. There also had to be

the dark suspicion that, having gathered his friends and colleagues

around him, Dorian was finding anything preferable to their company.

Tap-tap… tap-tap… A light clatter downstairs caught her attention.

Not the catflap, a sharper more definite sound. What on earth? She rose

to her feet and went downstairs. The noise was coming from the other

side of the front door. Not exactly someone knocking but … tap-tap …

tap-tap … something was going on. She turned the knob and swung open

the door.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.” Gordie stood there,

a hammer upraised in his hand. “It’s supposed to be a surprise. Season’s

Greetings to you and the Pettifogg Sisters from Dorian and Field Marshal

Sir Oliver Aldershot.”

An enormous Christmas wreath swung crookedly on the door. Pine branches

twisted into a circle, dotted with silver-painted pine cones, red holly

berries, plaited with red and silver ribbons, deliciously fragrant,

but…

“How … kind of them,” Lorinda said coldly. She had not planned to have

a wreath this year - or any year. She had learned her lesson about

wreaths. The cats considered a wreath a cross between a personal

challenge and a mini-gymnasium. They leaped for it, swung on it, dragged

it to the ground and tore it apart, trying to eat the berries and

playing knock-them- down-the-steps-and-chase-them with the pine cones.

“Dorian wanted everybody to feel that he was here with them

in spirit,” Gordie said. Behind him, a wheelbarrow was heaped high with

wreaths. She was evidently the first stop on his rounds.

“Yes, well…” tap-tap… tap-tap… “I’ll just finish up here and

be on my way. Unless there’s anything else you’d like me to do,” he

added politely.

Lorinda watched in silence, shivering in the cold, as he finished

securing the wreath to the front door. It was a good effort, but her

money was on the cats.

“There!” He stepped back, admiring his handiwork since she obviously

wasn’t going to. Her silence seemed to unnerve him, as his expectant

attitude always unnerved her. He seemed always to be waiting for pearls

of wisdom to drop from her mouth, giving him the secret of being a

successful writer. He did it with the others, too, she knew. It left

them all feeling rather inadequate and unwilling to socialize with him

as much as they might have otherwise. “Well.” He gave a disappointed

sigh. No secrets this time. “I’ll get on to the next place then. It will

look really nice when they’re all up. Like a Christmas-card village.”

“Yes,” Lorinda said. “I can’t wait to see what Dorian is going

to do with us in the summer. Presumably, he intends to enter us in the

Prettiest Village in England Competition.” “Er, I wouldn’t know about

that.” Gordie slipped his hammer into a loop in his belt and returned to

his wheelbarrow, tilted it up and trundled it off the premises. Lorinda

gazed at the wreath thoughtfully, but decided to let Nature red in tooth

and claw take its course. What a shame Dorian wouldn’t be here to see

what happened to his wreath. Perhaps Jack could take a picture of it.

She closed the door, chilled to the bone and not in a very good mood.

She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Where were the cats? It

was nearly lunch time and they were usually underfoot and nagging by

this hour. She opened the refrigerator door, a sound guaranteed to bring

them running if they were within earshot. Nothing happened.

She took a carton of fish chowder out of the freezer; that would do for

all of them, and flipped on the radio for the midday news report. It was

reassuring to discover that nothing of any great importance was

happening anywhere in the world.

Flip-flop. flip-flop… Those were the sounds she had been waiting for.

She turned to see Had-I and But-Known advance into the kitchen and head

straight for her with little mewls of greeting.

“Just in time,” she said. “Soup’s on.”

Had-I lifted her nose, inhaled deeply and expressed loud approval.

But-Known’s response was equally enthusiastic, but muffled, her mouth

was already full.

“Oh, no! What have you got there?” Lorinda crouched down

to investigate. “Come on, let me see. But-Known backed away skittishly,

ready for a game, but too proud of her prize to keep it up for long. She

advanced again and allowed herself to be captured.

“Clever girl, let me see.” Lorinda reached for it without fear.

In hunting matters, But-Known was a conscientious objector. Had-I was

the one you had to watch. In any case, the worst was over; they had

bagged Clarice’s white rat. What further terrors could their scavenging

hold?

“Macho’s hair ribbon!” Whoops, how he would hate to hear

it described like that. She wondered absently just what he called it.

But the narrow black ribbon he tied back his ponytail with was

definitely a hair ribbon.

It was also cold and soaking wet. How long had they been playing with it

before they brought it home? Lorinda examined it suspiciously for

teethmarks. No, no telltale little pinpoint holes, no ravelled threads.

She could drape it over a chairback to dry and return it to Macho

without too many apologies. “Where did you get this?” she asked in mock

reproof. “Did Macho lose it?” That would mean he had left his

self-imposed imprisonment and was moving about the village again.

“Or…” Another thought occurred to her. “Have you been in visiting

Roscoe and decided to do a bit of pilfering while you were there?” That

was quite possible. They had been missing Roscoe lately, he usually came

over to play with them every day. It was quite typical of them to go out

to find him. Macho, of course, would have had no objection to opening

the door to them, whatever he was feeling about his human acquaintances

these days.

But-Known purred and rubbed against her ankles. Had-I made a sharp

remark and looked pointedly at the saucepan simmering on the electric

coil and sending out delicious aromas.

“Quite right. I’m hungry, too. We can sort this out later.” Cheered on

by the cats, she dished out the fish chowder.

They were just finishing it when there was a clatter at the back door.

Macho slithered into the room just as Lorinda called out, “Come in.” He

clutched Roscoe in his arms and nudged the door closed with his foot,

looking over his shoulder.

“You should never leave a door unlocked like that,” he said

ungratefully. “It isn’t safe.”

“It’s perfectly safe.” She didn’t want to admit that she hadn’t noticed

the door was unlocked. Macho was nervous enough. “What’s the matter with

you?”

“Matter? I’ll tell you what’s the matter! Someone’s hung a wreath on my

door! I’m not dead yet.” Roscoe gave a protesting yowl as the arms

around him tightened uncomfortably. “He hasn’t got me yet!”

“Macho, it’s a Christmas wreath. We’ve all got them. A little present

from Dorian.” The import of his words hit her belatedly. “Who hasn’t got

you yet?”

“Aaarrreeoow…” Roscoe had had enough; he twisted from Macho’s grip and

dropped to the floor, immediately heading for the corner where Had-I and

But-Known were hunched over their bowls. He made the mistake of trying

to thrust his nose into Had-I’s bowl and got a sharp clip across the

ear. But-Known growled a warning and a brisk skirmish ensued. They

didn’t mind sharing the dry cat food with him, but luscious creamy fish

chowder was something else again.

Macho recaptured Roscoe and murmured soothingly to him. They both

sniffed the air wistfully.

“Have you had lunch?” Lorinda asked. Or even breakfast, she wondered.

Macho was looking more haggard and unhappy than when she had last seen

him.

“Er, no,” he admitted. “I was going to, but I was distracted by the

knocking at the front door. By the time I got there, I found the wreath

hanging there and no one in sight. I got Roscoe and came over here to

… to…” He seemed to have forgotten just why he had come.

“Sit down,” Lorinda said. “I’ll heat some more chowder, there’s plenty

in the freezer.” And, after Macho had eaten and was more relaxed,

perhaps he might be willing to tell her why he was so upset.

Roscoe stretched forward to sniff at the bowl Lorinda placed before

Macho and drew back with an injured look at discovering that it was

empty.

“Don’t worry,” she told him. “It will be ready soon.” She placed an

empty bowl for him on the floor. Had-I and But-Known promptly roamed

over to check it. “You can have some more, too, if you like,” she told

them. “There’s plenty for everybody.”

The cats protested as she served Macho first, then settled down

impatiently over their bowls waiting for the chowder to cool enough to

eat. They probably envied Macho’s ability to blow on each spoonful

before ingesting it.

“By the way…” Lorinda lifted the black ribbon from the back

of Macho’s chair and laid it beside his bowl. “I’m afraid But-Known owes

you an apology.

“Little devil’s been at it again, has she?” Macho said indulgently, his

mood improving with every spoonful. He picked up the ribbon, then

frowned.

“No apology due,” he said. “That’s not one of mine. I don’t have any

with silver threads running through them. Bit too excessive.”

“Then where -? Oh, no!” She turned to But-Known in dismay. “You didn’t

nick it from Plantagenet Sutton!”

“There goes a good review on your next book.” Macho was positively

cheerful now.

“On the next five books,” Lorinda said dolefully. “He doesn’t like cats,

anyway. Or dogs. Or children - although he may have a point where

Clarice is concerned.” Macho brooded for a moment. “Maybe he hasn’t

noticed it’s missing. For God’s sake, never admit the cat took it. If

you take it back to Coffers Court and drop it just inside the door, he

may think it fell off.” “It must have fallen off,” Lorinda said

uneasily. “Otherwise, how would But-Known have got it?”

They looked at the cats, who had finished their chowder and were slumped

together in a contented heap, replete and purring. Roscoe, eyes closed

and with an expression of bliss, was being groomed by Had-I, with

But-Known nestled under one forearm, already asleep.

“I’m sure he thinks your girls are his personal harem.” Macho was

bemused and perhaps a trifle envious. “And sometimes they act as though

they think so, too.”

“He’s certainly sweet-natured. He doesn’t even mind when they bully and

tease him.” Lorinda suddenly noticed that they had slipped into a

variation on the theme of how well the cats got along together, the

argument Macho had put to her when asking her to take over Roscoe - if

anything happened to him. Had this anything to do with the way Macho

kept looking over his shoulder, and the curious remark, “He hasn’t got

me … yet,” he made as he came through the door?

“Macho -” she began.

A sudden disturbing sound erupted into the silence. Distant,

at first, but rapidly approaching, a siren warning everyone out of its

way. Urgent, demanding… ominous - and all too familiar these days.

“Ambulance!” Macho was on his feet. “No!” So was Lorinda. “Now what?”

They rushed to the living room windows. Behind them, the cats were all

asleep now, undisturbed by the wailing siren. Not an ear twitched, not a

whisker stirred. It had nothing to do with them.

Lorinda pulled the curtains back just as the ambulance roared past and

turned at the corner leading up to the Manor House. Another burst of

sound heralded its approach. She had heard once that the paramedics

sometimes turned on the siren from some distance away, just to reassure

the injured that help was on its way.

“Dorian!” she gasped. “He must have had an accident!” He should have

been in mid-flight now - unless something had happened to him. If the

airport limousine had called at the door and no one responded to the

bell, they would probably have gone away again, cursing, but assuming

some friend had volunteered to drive the passenger to the airport and no

one had thought to cancel them.

“Get your coat!” Macho was already heading for the door. “Come on!”

The blast of cold air struck her like a blow in the face as she stepped

outside. Frost dusted the trees and bushes; they might have a white

Christmas in store but, right now, it was too cold to snow. She pulled

her coat more tightly around her and they joined the straggle of people

who had suddenly appeared from nowhere and were following in the wake of

the ambulance.

“What the hell is happening now?” Jack came up behind them, pulling on

his gloves. Karla was beside him, pale and speechless as she stared at

the braking ambulance. “Dorian,” she whispered. There was a deafening

moment as a police car swept past them, siren blaring, after which no

one spoke, they just walked faster. Nearly running, they reached the

gate to the grounds of the Manor House where the two vehicles had pulled

to a halt.

Doors slammed and uniformed people began piling out and along the grey

stone wall to the gate. Gemma Duquette stood by the wrought-iron gate,

dabbing at her face with a crumpled tissue. The dogs, strangely subdued,

were sitting at her feet, but began to bark as the strangers ran past

them.

“Gemma!” Betty Alvin dashed ahead of the others. “Are you

all right?” “I … I found him,” Gemma choked. “Rather, the dogs did. I

… I was walking them and … they began pulling at their leads …

they wanted to come in here. They must have known She broke off and

wielded the tissue again.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lorinda saw Freddie slip past and through

the gate. She followed quietly while the others were waiting for Gemma

to resume her story.

At first, all she saw was legs: the legs lying flat on the ground,

surrounded by the columns of other legs, upright legs, belonging to the

emergency services rallying around him. Too late. He had been lying

there a long time, probably all night. The frost outlined his form. A

killing frost, literally. He would not get up - aided or unaided - and

walk away.

Some of the legs moved aside as the paramedics shifted to crouch by the

body. For a moment, there was a clear view.

He could have been sleeping, except that he looked far more dishevelled

than one could have imagined him in lif. His Barbour jacket was awry,

his tie askew and long untidy strands of limp grey hair straggled around

his neck and spread out wildly behind his head.

“He -? He’s dead?” Freddie wanted to be told it was all a mistake, that

things weren’t the way they looked, that the paramedics could load him

into the ambulance, rush him off to the hospital and he would be

bellowing for better service and claret in no time.

“I’m afraid so.” Lorinda felt numb and it was not just from the cold. It

was all very well to write glibly about the discovery of bodies, state

of the corpse, and sundry matters, but it was quite another thing when

the corpse was someone you knew personally.

“I wonder if he got his last column in.” Freddie was recovering. “And

who they’ll get to replace him?”

Lorinda shook her head weakly. These were questions she could not deal

with at the moment. She stared at the grey locks, rimed with frost and

straggling out over the sered grass.

Had But-Known raked them out like that as she clawed her ribbon trophy

from his ponytail?

“It’s Plantagenet Sutton, isn’t it?” Betty Alvin had come up behind

them. “I knew I shouldn’t have left him there.” Her voice rose, wavering

out of control. “I should have waited and walked him back to Coffers

Court, no matter what Dorian said. He was in no condition to be left on

his own.” “You knew the deceased?” She had attracted the attention of

the police. One of them detached himself from the group around the body

and came over to them. “Are you the person who made the telephone call

to us?”

“No.” Betty quailed under his frown. “No, that was Gemma. The lady with

the dogs. She was walking them when she discovered

“Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to clear the area.” He lost interest

in her. “All of you. Leave your names and addresses with the constable

and we’ll be around to talk to you later.” He waited patiently,

expressionless, obviously determined to see them off the scene.

They turned reluctantly and walked back through the gateposts to join

the others on the pavement outside.

“Is he really dead?” Jack asked, earning an indignant look from Gemma,

who had already told him so. “What happened?”

“Doornail,” Freddie confirmed. “Don’t know. There wasn’t a mark on him.

Not,” she qualified cautiously, “that I could see.

“Yeah? Well, whatever happened to him, there’ll be a lot of dancing in

the streets when the word gets round.”

“Jack!” Karla’s protest was automatic; she looked anxiously at the

others to see how they were taking his remark.

“I thought you got along very well with him,” Macho said. “Hey, listen,

I liked him OK. Don’t get the wrong idea. But that Brussels sprout was

his idea, you know.” Jack paused thoughtfully. “You know, down deep, he

had a lot of hostility towards you people.”

“And vice versa,” someone muttered, too low and too quickly

to be identified. “I don’t think it’s smart to make cracks like that

with all these cops around,” Karla said. “We don’t know what happened to

him yet - and he wasn’t the most popular guy around.”

“Now who’s making stupid remarks?” Jack looked over her shoulder at an

approaching constable. “Considering the kind of books you people write,

the last word in the world any of you should hint at is you-know-what.

Oh, hello, Officer-” He gave a bright, nervous smile. “We aren’t

blocking the way, are we?”

“Good afternoon, sir.” The words were unexceptional, the tone said,

clear off, you lot. “Madam.” He turned to Gemma, glancing down at the

dogs, who were beginning to stir restively again. “I understand you

reported this, er, incident?” “That’s right,” Gemma said. “We … the

dogs and I… found the-Found him.”

Betty Alvin suddenly began to weep quietly. “Perhaps we could speak to

the rest of you later.” The constable was young enough to be

uncomfortable. “If any of you have any relevant information, that is.”

His tone showed that he doubted it. They were just another crowd of

bystanders trying to pretend they weren’t just being nosy. “Come on.”

Impulsively, Karla threw an arm around Betty’s shoulders. “Let’s go back

to my place and have coffee. All of you, she added. “I baked cookies

yesterday; wasn’t that lucky?”

“Honey,” Jack protested in a warning tone. “I’m not sure we have enough

cups.

“Then Freddie will help out, won’t you, Freddie?”

“Sure,” Freddie agreed promptly, a gleam in her eye. “No problem at all.

What are neighbours for?”

“Gemma -” Karla called as they began walking away. “You come and join us

when they’ve finished with you.”

“Gemma -” Lorinda hung back. “Would you like me to take the dogs? You

can collect them at Karla’s.”

“Oh, would you?” Gemma handed over the leashes gratefully. “They’ve had

their walk. I don’t want them to stay outside too long, they might catch

a chill.”

The dogs frisking in front of her, Lorinda did not catch up with the

others until they reached the house.

“How charming,” she said, looking around as Jack tethered the pugs to

the banister and took her coat.

“Karla likes it.” He shrugged. “But I feel like I’m drowning in chintz.

No, I mean it,” he answered her smile. “Some nights I really dream I’m

sinking down through waves of chintz, past chintz rocks into a deep

undersea cavern all swathed in chintz. I wake up choking and trying to

breathe.” “How uncomfortable.” Lorinda had chintz curtains herself;

there wasn’t much she could say. “Would you prefer leather?”

“What do you mean by that crack?” He glared at her suspiciously.

“Mean?” She raised an eyebrow and stared him down. “What could I mean?”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “My nerves are shot to hell these days. Accidents

all over the place - and then people dropping dead. I wish we’d never

come here.” Lorinda was spared trying to answer that by a kicking at the

base of the front door. Jack opened it to find Freddie, laden with a

tray full of mugs, cups, saucers and glasses.

“You’ve got enough to supply an army there,” he said. “Just wait,”

Freddie predicted. “We’ll use them all.” “Wait! Hold it!” Footsteps

pounded down the path as Jack started to shut the door. Professor Borley

appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on?”

“You see?” Freddie said meaningly, carrying her tray through into the

kitchen.

Jack took a quick nervous look around outside before stepping back

smartly and almost slamming the door shut.

“I was working,” Professor Borley explained earnestly to Lorinda, “so I

was only vaguely aware of all the commotion. By “What did the police

say?” Karla edged forward. “What happened to him? Was it his heart?”

“Heart? What heart?” Gemma stared at her, bewildered. “Well said,” Macho

applauded.

“Hey, come on, now,” Jack protested. “Nil-boni-whatever-it-is. The guy’s

dead, after all.”

“And not before time,” Macho said. “It’s easy for you to talk, you only

met him socially. You were never reviewed by him.”

“My books haven’t been published in this country,” Karla snapped. The

vagaries of international publishing were always a delicate subject, as

was the fact that Jack had not actually written any books himself. “They

said no one would be interested in a couple of young American

backpackers. They didn’t think it would work, even if I turned them into

Australians.” She brooded quietly. “Not that I’d do that. There are so

many differences -

“Oh!” Betty gave a choked sob. “How can-?” She broke off abruptly, but

it wasn’t hard to guess what she nearly said before recalling herself.

Lorinda supposed that their preoccupation with their own characters and

work must sound like untrammelled ego to other people.

“Take it easy. Here -” Jack thrust a glass into Betty’s hand. “Drink up

and you’ll feel better.”

“I think I need a drink more than she does.” Gemma spoke with some

asperity. “I was the one who found him, you know. And the police have

been questioning me.”

“Coming right up.” Jack poured with a lavish hand, perhaps because he

had some questions of his own. “What did you tell them? I mean, what did

they tell you? Do they know what happened? Will they have an inquest? An

autopsy?” He looked suddenly queasy and turned away to pour and gulp at

a large drink for himself before serving anyone else.

They all knew too much about the inner workings of a police

investigation, Lorinda recognized sadly. It did not make for comfortable

conversation or thoughts when those workings were being applied to

someone they had actually known.

“They … they think he was there all night,” Gemma said slowly. Her

reluctance was obviously because she did not wish to think about it

herself, not because she was hesitant to share the information with

them. “He… he would have died of hypothermia. Exposure, we used to

call it. It was the coldest night of the year so far.” “I knew it! I

knew it!” Betty began sobbing uncontrollably again. “i shouldn’t have

left him! I shouldn’t!”

“There, there.” Professor Borley patted her shoulder ineffectually, but

she broke away from him and hurled herself into a corner of the sofa,

wailing incoherently.

“Pull yourself together!” Freddie had dealt with hysterics before, as

evinced by the expert way she yanked Betty upright and shook her. “You

are not responsible. You didn’t go off and leave him lying on the

ground, did you?”

“Of course not!” Betty was shocked into indignation. “I’d never

do a thing like that!” “Then where did you leave him?” Lorinda had the

feeling that she already knew the answer.

“With Dorian.” Betty hiccoughed and dabbed at her eyes. “I - I’d been up

there helping him pack…” She’d been doing all the work, she meant. It

was par for the course with Dorian; he’d use his part-time secretary as

valet, waitress, chief cook and bottle-washer and anything else he

happened to be in need of. The thought caught Lorinda unawares. Anything

else? She blinked and looked at Betty with a sudden question in her

mind. “Mr Sutton … Plantagenet… had come up to say Bon voyage

to Dorian and… and he’d brought a bottle of champagne with him. They

… he… gave me a glass,” she said defiantly, “while I was packing. We

all drank the champagne - but it wasn’t the first drink Plantagenet had

had that night, I could tell.” She sipped at her own drink again, as

heads nodded in agreement.

“Then … then the packing was finished. Except for the last-minute bits

- toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, you know - to be tossed in in the

morning… and I was ready to leave. I expected Plantagenet to come with

me - we were both going back to Coffers Court and Dorian had to get up

at the crack of dawn, but…but…”

“But you left alone.” Lorinda had done her best to sound sympathetic,

but Betty was looking for criticism.

“I did suggest … but I couldn’t insist. And … and Dorian said he had

this special bottle he wanted Plantagenet to sample … but that I

didn’t have the taste buds to appreciate it. And… and… he’d ring me

in the morning to come up for last-minute instructions and … and to

finish his packing. I knew they … he… didn’t want me around any more

… in case they had to be polite and share their precious bottle with

me. Well…” For an instant, something indescribably ugly flashed in

her face. “It didn’t do them any good, did it?”

She had been used and coldly dismissed until she was needed again. How

typical of Dorian. And … how unfortunate for Plantagenet Sutton.

“But I should have waited outside

“Don’t be silly, you’d have caught pneumonia,” Freddie said sensibly.

“They could have lingered over that bottle for a couple of hours - and

there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t have opened another one. There

was nothing you could have done.”

“But - but that wasn’t the worst,” Betty wailed. “When I got home, I - I

unplugged my telephone. So that Dorian couldn’t call me at the crack of

dawn.”

“Good for you!” Karla said.

“I was going to tell him the phone was out of order. But, don’t you see?

If I’d gone up to do all those last-minute things, I’d have found

Plantagenet hours earlier than he was found. I - I might have been in

time to save him.” “No, you wouldn’t.” Freddie was still being sensible.

“A couple

of hours on that frozen ground would have been enough to finish him in

last night’s weather.”

“Sure. Once he hit the ground and didn’t get up right away,

he didn’t have a chance.” Jack quietly topped up Betty’s glass. “And now

Dorian will find out.” Betty’s real terror spilled over. “Dorian will

know I did it deliberately. Unplugged the phone because I didn’t want

him to bother me. He - he’ll sack me. I’ll lose my job.”

“So what?” Jack was puzzled. “He’s not the only one paying you around

here. The rest of us will still need you - and your hours will be a

helluva lot better.”

“But I’ll lose my little home, too. I won’t be able to stay in Coffers

Court. It - it’s a sort of a tied cottage.” She began to cry again. “Oh,

I wish I’d never done it! But I was so tired … exhausted… I’d had

all I could take. I couldn’t stand even one morning more…

“Don’t worry,” Freddie said grimly. “You’ll stay in Coffers Court. The

rest of us will see to that.”

“Anyway, Dorian will never know if you don’t admit it,” Macho pointed

out. “There’s no need for you to tell all these details to the police.

All that’s relevant is that you finished your job and left. Plantagenet

wanted to stay and keep on drinking. It isn’t as if you arrived together

in the first place. You couldn’t be expected to leave together.” “Will

the police make Dorian come back, though? He’ll be furious. And -” Betty

would not be comforted. “And he’ll take it out on us … on me. “I doubt

that the police will have any inquiries that can’t be handled by a

telephone call,” Lorinda said. “Given the circumstances, the verdict is

sure to be “Misadventure”.”

“That’s right,” Freddie agreed. “Once they get a reading on the alcohol

level in his blood, the only mystery will be how he managed to stagger

as far as he did.”

10

CHAPTER TWENTY

“I fear that my patience is becoming exhausted.” Miss Petunia aimed the

spray gun at the greenfly on the roses and wielded it violently. “You,

Petunia?” Lily was incredulous. “But you’re the one with all the

patience. Got none myself, I know. And Marigold is too impetuous for her

own good. You got the patience for all three of us. And the brains,” she

acknowledged humbly. “You can’t run out of patience, it’s practically

your middle name.

“Perhaps - but I can be pushed too far. I have warned that woman!” …

squirt … “I have given her every chance.” … squirt… “I have bent

over backwards-” … squirt…

“Oh, do be careful, Petunia.” Marigold turned worried blue eyes on her

eldest sister. “You’re going to wrench that spray gun apart.

“I’ll wrench her apart!”

“Petunia!” Marigold was scandalized.

“Action,” Lily agreed. “That’s what we need. Been rusticating too long.

Nothing to get our teeth into. No action except for-She broke off and

frowned, not wanting to admit the action they had been involved in, even

to herself.

“Precisely!” Miss Petunia said.

“You mean … Marigold quavered. “That terrible dream … nightmare …

I had last night? The rest of you had it, too?”

“Precisely!”

“It won’t do,” Lily said. “Can’t go on like this. Never knowing when a

perfectly innocent investigation is going to explode in our faces.

“Precisely!” Miss Petunia took a deep breath and hurled the spray gun

into the herbaceous border, something she had never done before. “The

ingratitude of it all! We have fed her, clothed her, bought her a house,

supported her for all these years - and now she turns on us like this!”

“Not good enough,” Lily brooded.

“My whole body aches,” Marigold said piteously. “And I’m afraid to look

in the mirror for fear I’ll discover I’m covered in … In blood.”

“Got a fearful pain in the neck,” Lily agreed. Miss Petunia rubbed her

stomach reflectively and said nothing; her expression was grim.

“I feel so peculiar,” Marigold said. “As… as though … I’m fading

away.

“This cannot be allowed to go on,” Miss Petunia proclaimed. “Quite

right.” Lily nodded. “Had enough.” “But, Petunia…” Marigold quavered.

“What can we do? We’ve already tried to plead our case with her.”

“Fired a warning shot across her bows,” Lily corrected. “Neither of

which she heeded.” Miss Petunia faced them implacably.

“Perhaps we should try again,” Marigold said nervously. “Surely, we can

make her understand.”

“Waste of time,” Lily said.

“Quite right. The woman is obtuse!” Miss Petunia declared. “Furthermore,

she is completely self-obsessed. She does not care what happens to us.

“Thinks only of herself,” Lily said. “Bone-selfish.” “We have

established that, dear,” Miss Petunia said. “Now we must decide what to

do about it.”

“Chop!” Lily looked into the distance, her mouth pursed in a soundless

whistle. Her hand came up to make a slashing motion across her throat.

“Give her the chop!”

“Oh, no!” Marigold gasped. “No! That’s too drastic!” “She’s trying to do

it to us,” Lily reminded her. “I fear dear Lily is right,” Miss Petunia

said. “The time has come for decisive action. Before it is too late.”

“Too late?” Marigold’s eyes widened. “Oh, Petunia, whatever can you

mean? However could it be too late?”

“Only too easily, I fear,” Miss Petunia said. “Just suppose that our …

our Chronicler -” She gave the word an unpleasant sneering twist. “Our

Author … were to actually use one of those evil disgraceful chapters

one day? Suppose that, either by accident or design, she ended the

current book with it, sent it off to the publishers - and they published

It?”

“Oh, Petunia!” Marigold reeled with dismay. “Surely they wouldn’t do

that! They’d expostulate with her, make her rewrite the ending …

Wouldn’t they?”

“They might,” Miss Petunia conceded. “Then again, they might not. They

might consider that the publicity she would achieve by killing us off

might outweigh the disadvantages.” “Barmy bunch, publishers,” Lily

agreed. “Never can tell with them.”

“But … all those books…” Marigold did look as though she were

fading. “All those years…

“Precisely,” Miss Petunia said. “They might think we’d run our course.”

“Outstayed our welcome,” Lily said. “Time for a change.” “Precisely!

Especially if Lorinda Lucas has an idea for a new series. The publicity

attendant upon our demise would get it off to a flying start.” “And

she’d never look back,” Lily said.

“But … but … we’d be … gone.” Marigold could not encompass the

thought. “Of course’ - She brightened - “there are still all those

previous books.”

“Much good they’d do us,” Lily said. “Oh, she could lean back and still

collect royalties from them, but we’d be on the shelf. In our graves. “I

fear dear Lily has put her finger on the nub of the matter. Miss Petunia

adjusted her pince-nez and gazed sadly at her sisters.

“But…” Marigold was still unwilling to believe it. “Has Miss Lucas

another series in mind? Surely, we’d know about it. I… I haven’t

received any intimations. Have you?” “That is why we must act now,” Miss

Petunia said. “Before she does. Her mind is a blank on other characters

at the moment, but there are pernicious influences afoot. She is being

unsettled by the company of her peers and all their dissatisfactions.

Things have not been the same since the fateful day she moved to Brimful

Coffers!”

“Then why don’t we ask her to move away again?” Marigold suggested

brightly. “Then everything can be the way it was before.

“No.” Miss Petunia shook her head gravely. Even Lily was shaking her

head. “The situation is too advanced. There can be no going back.”

“No going back…” Lily echoed grimly.

“But…” Marigold’s mood veered, now she seemed on the verge of tears.

“But … what can we do?”

“Now, Marigold,” Miss Petunia said gently. “We have discussed this

before. You know the options.”

“But we can’t!” Marigold wailed. “It would be too brutal … too

cruel…”

“Too soft-hearted for her own good,” Lily snorted. “Any less brutal or

less cruel than what she has been doing

to us?” Miss Petunia asked bluntly. “But … but we have always stood

for law and order.” Marigold raised tear-drenched eyes. “For justice! We

… we’re the good guys!”

“Do it right,” Lily muttered, “and nobody will ever suspect it was us.

“Quite right, dear,” Miss Petunia approved. “As dear Marigold has

pointed out, we are the “good guys”. For that reason alone, no one would

ever suspect us. Apart from other reasons… She let the thought trail

off delicately.

“What other reasons?” Marigold asked innocently. “Well, dear, we are. .

. after all …” Miss Petunia tried to think

of a tactful way of phrasing it. “Fictional.” Lily had no such

compunction. “Er, yes. We do exist … for the most part … on the

printed page,” Miss Petunia admitted reluctantly.

“Then … then how are we going to do anything?” “We will find a way,”

Miss Petunia vowed. “Oh…” Marigold brightened. “You mean like “Love

will find

a way”?” “Not exactly,” Miss Petunia said. “In this case it’s more like

. . hate.”

“No two ways about it,” Lily said. “Only one thing to do.”

Marigold covered her face with her hands and sobbed as her sisters

chorused in unison:

“Lorinda Lucas m

u

S T d

I

e.

“I was shattered to get the news,” Dorian said, squinting into his

champagne glass. “Quite shattered. However, we can be thankful for one

thing. He went the way he’d have wanted to go: drunk.”

There was no doubt that he relished the shocked gasps from some of his

audience; those who knew him well wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“That guy is beginning to get on my nerves, Jack snarled quietly to

Lorinda. “It was nice and peaceful while he was away, now everybody’s on

edge again.”

Lorinda nodded, more in acknowledgement than agreement.

So far as she had noticed, life had not been especially peaceful in the

two weeks that Dorian had been on his cruise, and everyone had been on

edge well before his return. Freddie and Macho in particular. True, the

holiday season had passed by quietly. Plantagenet’s demise had put paid

to any festive spirit that might have been stirring. Once the police had

wrapped up their perfunctory (Plantagenet’s reputation was well known;

there were rumours the wine merchant was going to drape his windows in

black) inquiries, those who could manage it escaped Brimful Coffers for

their holidays. Rhylla Montague had picked up a last-minute reservation

at a Country House Hotel and taken off for Devon with Clarice. Gemma

Duquette and Betty Alvin had retreated to the respective family

Christmases they had been congratulating themselves on avoiding before

the prospect seemed an improvement on staying in a depleted Coffers

Court. The Jackleys, in an excess of hospitality, or possibly because

they couldn’t face each other’s unadulterated company, had invited

Lorinda, Freddie, Macho and Professor Borley to Christmas dinner and

they had all found it the line of least resistance to accept.

Everyone was relieved when the holiday season ended and life began to

chug slowly back to normal. Except … except…

Lorinda tore her mind away from the thought of that new and menacing

chapter she had discovered beside her typewriter. Her mind . . her mind

…

“Oh, I’m sorry -” She became aware that Jack was staring at her

questioningly. She hadn’t heard a word he’d been saying. “I - I’m afraid

I missed that. It’s noisy in here, isn’t it?” “That’s OK. I’m getting

used to it with you people. Either you snap my head off when I make a

little joke, like Freddie. Or you look right through me, like Macho. And

even my own wife. And the excuse is always you’re thinking about the new

book.”

“I’m sorry.” Lorinda was beginning to feel guilty about Jack and

resented it. “But we are.”

“Not your fault.” His attention was on the group surrounding Dorian,

where his wife was being breathlessly attentive. He gripped his new

camera so tightly that he winced.

“Jeez!” he burst out. “I’d like to nail that guy. I’d like to get a

picture of him picking his nose, or something worse. I want him in

pieces. I want him-“

Dead. The unsaid word hung in the air, resonating clearly. Jack darted a

furtive look at her to see if she had heard it, too. She tried to keep

her face blank and appear oblivious.

“Dorian’s in great form.” Freddie came up to them. “His cruise seems to

have done him a world of good.”

“Maybe we should all try it,” Macho said, closing ranks on the other

side. “We need something. There are still a couple of months of damp and

fog until spring. I’m not looking forward to February here - or March,

either.” “Why don’t we just send Dorian away again?” Jack was bitter.

“That would improve the atmosphere one hundred per cent for me.

“Shh!” Freddie said. “He’s coming this way.” “I don’t care,” Jack

muttered, but he subsided. “Ah, a cluster of colleagues.” Dorian was

upon them, tanned,

fit, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. He glanced at

Jack. “Almost,” he added. Jack responded by stepping back swiftly,

raising the camera and firing off a shot he obviously hoped would blind

Dorian, but Dorian was too quick for him and shifted focus just in time.

Jack lowered the camera and walked over to join his wife.

“Freddie, you’ve lost weight,” Dorian said. “You’re growing positively

Wraith-like.” He chuckled at his own joke. No one else did.

“And Macho, how many blondes have you bedded and blasted while I’ve been

away?” Again the joke fell flat.

“Lorinda, I won’t try to equate you with any of your characters. You’re

still too pretty and too young … perhaps in a few more years…

Lorinda stared at him as coldly as the others. The thought of tiptoeing

into the sunset years with Dorian was chilling. How had they allowed

themselves to be persuaded into this trap? On the other hand, Brimful

Coffers was quite a pleasant village, most of the inhabitants were

congenial… now that Plantagenet was no longer with them. It could be

even pleasanter… without Dorian.

Dorian looked around with a vaguely dissatisfied air, probably wondering

if there was anyone he hadn’t insulted yet.

Lorinda saw Jack tense as Dorian looked his way then, with

a dismissive smile to the rest of them, stroll in that direction.

Karla’s face lit up as she saw him coming; she, at least, was glad to

see him. Jack raised his camera defensively, as though it were a shield.

“I don’t know about Dorian,” Freddie said reflectively, “but it

definitely looks as though absence has made Karla’s heart grow fonder.”

“Perhaps that was the idea,” Macho said. “If there really is something

going on between them, Karla may not have been moving fast enough to

suit him.”

“If he wants her to move.” Freddie was still thoughtful. “He may have

been hoping she’d cool down a bit. I think the situation suits him just

the way it is; he doesn’t want to formalize it. What Karla wants is

another story.” “I don’t see why she doesn’t just get a divorce,”

Lorinda said. “She hasn’t any religious scruples about it, has she?”

“Religion doesn’t come into it.” Freddie gave her a pitying glance.

“Unless you count Mammon as a religion.”

“But she doesn’t need to worry about alimony, does she? I’d have thought

her sales were good enough to support her comfortably.”

“Haven’t you heard about Equal Rights?” Freddie raised an eyebrow. “The

trouble is, as a lot of women are finding out, that it works both ways.

It’s not just the man who pays any more. If they divorce and he can

show, as I’m sure he can, that he supported her through the early years

of struggle, then he’s entitled to a half share in her copyrights.”

“Wha-at?” Macho squawked incredulously. “That’s obscene!” Lorinda felt

the blood drain from her face. “That’s the law - and it’s coming over

here, too. Same principle as the Little Woman keeping house, raising the

kids and providing a secure base while the Breadwinner goes out and

builds up his business, in which she’s entitled to share because of her

contribution to the joint welfare.” Freddie shot Macho a sardonic look.

“Lucky you got your divorce when you did, you could really be taken to

the cleaners nowadays.”

Macho took a deep gulp from his glass. For a moment he looked as though,

if there had been a worm at the bottom of the glass, he would have

crunched it.

“If you ask me,” Freddie went on, “that’s why Karla was so willing to

take on the contract for the Miss Mudd books. There’s no question of her

holding any copyright in them and she can use them to mark time and

provide some income while she decides what she wants to do about her

situation. Either bite the bullet and divorce Jack or…” Freddie

drained her own glass. “Shoot the bullet into him - which would be a lot

neater and cheaper than a divorce.”

“And Jack has already had one nasty “accident” that could have been

fatal.” It was unreal, perhaps surreal, to be standing in the gracious

drawing room calmly speculating on whether people they knew socially

might turn out to be killer and victim, but Lorinda could not keep her

professional instincts from kicking in.

“Accident would be the best way.” Macho narrowed his eyes. She was not

the only one whose professionalism was showing.

They all surveyed the group across the room, coolly assessing the

chances of real-life drama overtaking fiction.

“It’s no use. Macho was the first to look away. “We’re all too

civilized. We only do it on paper.

On paper… Lorinda gave an involuntary shudder. She could push her own

preoccupations to the back of her mind … her mind … but they came

back to haunt her at a careless word.

“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Freddie was still watching. “But I might give

you short odds on Jack launching a murderous attack on Dorian, if he

thought he could get away with it.”

“That could hold true for a lot of people.” Macho’s gaze swung around

the room from group to group. Viewing people as potential suspects, it

was suddenly unnerving to realize that everyone had a sinister side to

them.

Lorinda shuddered again and looked up to welcome the distraction of

Betty Alvin and Jennifer Lane approaching. Betty kept looking back over

her shoulder as though to ensure that she was putting adequate space

between herself and Dorian. Of course, he would not easily forgive her

for her defection on the morning he left and had to do his own

last-minute packing.

“Where’s the guest of honour?” Jennifer asked. “I thought she’d be here

to greet us. Or is she planning a Grand Entrance?”

“What guest of honour?” Freddie looked affronted. “I didn’t hear

anything about that. Did you?” She glared at the others.

“I thought this was just Dorian giving himself a Welcome Home party,”

Lorinda said, refraining from adding: Since no one else was likely to.

“I thought it was just a belated New Year gathering,” Macho said.

“I think Dorian wanted it to be a surprise for everyone.” Betty hastened

to spread oil on waters that were becoming troubled. “Of course, he had

to tell Jennifer so that she could put some books on display.”

“Hmmm,” Freddie said, echoing their thoughts. No one had failed to

notice that the new window display had featured an interloper.

“So we’re finally to be honoured by a visitation from Ondine van Zeet,

are we?” Macho did not look pleased. According to local rumour, the lady

had moved into Coffers Court, and then promptly gone back to London,

with no indication of when - or if - she would return. “Where’s Rhylla?”

Freddie looked around. “Does she know about this?”

“She’s in Dorian’s study.” Macho had been keeping track. “I think she’s

trying to convince Clarice of the delights of keeping tropical fish.”

“I wish her luck,” Freddie said. “If you ask me, the kid is right.

A Gila monster is just about her speed.” “AAH!” It was as much a fanfare

as a greeting. “Ondine, my dear! How good of you to grace our little

gathering!” Dorian swooped across the room to seize both her hands,

somehow having disposed of his glass as he passed a side table. He

raised both of her hands to his lips, in the manner of a monarch

conferring favour, but it was easy to see who outranked whom in the

pecking order. “Dorian, dear boy.” Ondine van Zeet freed her hands and

used one to pat his cheek as she stepped back from further intimacies.

“How sweet of you to invite me.”

“I think you know everyone here.” He led her forward. “By reputation, if

not personally.”

“I’m sure I must.” She glanced around without interest. Dorian

repossessed his glass and signalled Gordie to bring his tray over to

Ondine. Eagerly, Gordie rushed to their sides.

Gordie. Lorinda was assailed by a fresh attack of guilt. What had Gordie

done over the holidays? They had all forgotten about him - although he

would have been the first person they called for if anything had broken

down. She made a weak resolution to try to be nicer to him. Ondine

graciously accepted a glass of champagne from the tray with a mechanical

smile and turned to survey the room. Was it Lorinda’s imagination, or

did several people shrink back, trying to make themselves smaller and

inconspicuous?

This was in direct contrast to the very conspicuous Ondine, large and

commanding in a shimmering iridescent silk kaftan, looking as though she

were about to burst into an operatic aria. Lorinda remembered hearing,

among other rumours, that Ondine van Zeet was one of those who had come

to writing via an unsuccessful stage career - and she believed it. The

other believable rumour was that, although the lady did not have the

necessary talent for the stage, she certainly had the temperament. She

stood there, radiating ego.

“Somehow,” Freddie muttered, “I don’t get the impression that she’s

going to make a valuable addition to our little community.”

“Don’t look now,” Macho said, as Dorian began waving imperiously to

them, “but I think we’re being summoned for an Audience.” “Suddenly, I

have another appointment.” Freddie began edging backwards, slid behind a

couple of Londoners and disappeared.

“We’re going to have to meet her, sooner or later.” Lorinda took a firm

grip on Macho’s elbow before he could follow Freddie, and urged him

forward.

When Lorinda escaped shortly afterwards, it was with a sense of relief

that was disproportionate to the occasion. Nothing awful had actually

happened. Ondine had been neither as insulting nor as outrageous as her

reputation had led everyone to expect. Nevertheless, Lorinda had been

conscious of the uneasy feeling that the Sword of Damocles had been

poised above them all. She breathed more easily as she and Macho

approached her front door.

“Coming in for a drink?”

“Thanks, not now.” He also seemed uneasy and glanced around with

foreboding. “I’ll just collect my wandering boy and get back to my book,

I think. I’ve been away from it all day.”

Roscoe was still sleeping and barely blinked as Macho gathered him up.

Had-I and But-Known were more alert; they eyed Lorinda hopefully, trying

to decide whether she had brought any treats for them.

“Don’t open the fridge door until I’ve got Roscoe out of here,” Macho

directed. He opened the back door, looked left and right as

apprehensively as though he were about to step out on to a motorway, and

left hurriedly.

Lorinda watched from the window until he reached his own house, sliding

from shadow to shadow, acting like a fugitive and always looking back

over his shoulder. Was he heading for a nervous breakdown? Or could

there be some other explanation for his increasingly eccentric

behaviour? Had his ex-wife surfaced again, possibly issuing some sort of

writ he was trying to evade? Had-I made an impatient remark, pacing back

and forth in front of the fridge. But-Known sat quietly with a trusting

look on her face. In deference to that trust, Lorinda gave them rather

more tinned salmon than she had intended.

She had noticed the glow of the Message Waiting light on her answering

machine earlier. With no sense of urgency, she strolled into the living

room and proceeded to retrieve the message, hoping that there was one

and that the light hadn’t been lit by one of those technophobes who hung

up on discovering that they were expected to converse with a machine.

For long moments, there was silence, then a voice spoke. It was a voice

she had never heard before, but she recognized it instantly. It sounded

just the way she had always thought it would.

“Oh, you are terrible!” it pouted. “You must stop, you really must!

They’re getting so angry. I can’t reason with them much longer. They

want to … dispose of you … before you dispose of us. They mean it.

They won’t believe me when I tell them you’d never do such a thing…”

The voice wavered. “Would you? You wouldn’t, would you? No, no, you

couldn’t! But they don’t understand. They’re plotting to finish you.

Please, tell them you’ll let us go on forever. Promise them you won’t

“Marigold!” A sharp, autocratic, suspicious voice called imperiously in

the background. Lorinda recognized that voice, too. “Marigold, what are

you doing?”

“Nothing, Petunia,” Marigold gasped guiltily. “Nothing at all. Please -“

she whispered urgently. “Please-” The dial tone buzzed abruptly. She was

gone.

Lorinda stood frozen, staring down at the machine in horror. The cats

strolled into the room, licking their chops, and paused to watch her,

sensing something wrong. Lorinda pushed the Rewind button, holding her

breath as the message tape wound back into position. She took a deep

breath and pushed the Play button.

Nothing happened.

The tape whirred quietly; no message emanated from the speaker. Lorinda

let it run for a long time before pushing the Rewind and trying again.

Still there was no sound but the quiet whirr of tape. She spent several

frantic minutes stabbing the Rewind and Play buttons alternately, but

she could not retrieve the message. She could not make Marigold speak

again.

If Marigold had ever spoken in the first place. She sank into the

nearest chair, covering her face with her hands. The cats jumped into

her lap anxiously, trying to comfort her. She clutched them to her,

burying her face in their fur.

Her mind… her ……. she grieved quietly. What would she do without

it?

In the morning, Lorinda woke late and reluctantly. A new day seemed

almost too much to bear. She pulled aside the curtains to discover blue

skies and such an aggressively brilliant sun that she nearly closed them

again and went back to bed. That wouldn’t solve anything. She forced

herself to dress and go downstairs; she could not force herself to

glance in the direction of the answering machine. The Message Waiting

light would always signal terror to her from now on.

The cats were not in the kitchen. On a day like this, they would be

disporting themselves outside, or perhaps lying in a patch of sunlight,

enjoying the weather before it changed. Which was more than she could

do.

Tea and toast did not really interest her, but were the line of least

resistance; she ate automatically, trying to keep her mind a blank. Her

mind… All last night’s horrors rushed back into it. She got to her

feet quickly and carried the dishes over to the sink. She would not

think about it. Not now … not yet.

Keep busy, that was the thing. There was plenty to do. She could clean

the house, do the shopping, work on the book No! No, she could not bring

herself to go near her study, and the thought of having to write about

the loathsome Miss Petunia made her mind recoil. Her mind…

Flip-flop… flip-flop… The familiar sound brought her back to

normality.

“There you are, my darlings.” She turned to smile down on them. And

froze.

They advanced towards her trustingly, well pleased with themselves.

Especially But-Known, who had something long and black trailing out of

her mouth.

“What have you got there?” She had a terrible feeling she already knew.

“Come here, let me see it.” She crouched down and tugged gently at one

end. But-Known resisted playfully for a moment, then opened her mouth

and let the ribbon slide over to Lorinda. Another ribbon … “Where did

you get this?” Having expected praise, But-Known started and backed away

at Lorinda’s tone. Had-I sat down and began washing her face,

emphasizing that she had nothing to do with her sister’s scavenging. She

only brought home nice, sensible, edible offerings.

“Where ?” Lorinda pulled herself together and straightened up, still

clutching the black velvet ribbon. But-Known couldn’t answer and she was

only frightening the poor darling.

“I’m sorry. Good girl. Come on.” To make amends, she crossed

to the fridge and distributed largesse. She knew where But-Known must

have got that ribbon. Only Macho wore such a ribbon now. The question

was: what condition had he been in when she helped herself to it?

Lorinda looked down at the two sleek little heads bobbing over their

saucers and poured some milk into their bowl, putting off the inevitable

moment when she would have to do something.

She’d try it the easy way first. She went into the living room and

dialled Macho’s number. The phone rang just that couple of times too

many before the click. “BANG! Ya missed me, sucker! You don’t get - She

replaced the receiver. He wasn’t going to answer the phone. Perhaps he

couldn’t answer the phone. She was going to have to find out the hard

way. But she didn’t have to do it alone. She hoped. This time she tried

Freddie’s number.

“Hello?” Thank heavens Freddie was still answering the phone.

“Freddie … have you seen Macho this morning?” “No. Why?” Freddie

caught the uneasy note in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. It may be nothing. Only … But-Known has just dragged in

one of her offerings. It’s Macho’s ponytail ribbon. The last time she

brought home a ribbon…”

“Oh, no!” She didn’t need to finish, she had already told Freddie about

that. “I’ll meet you at Macho’s. We’ll break down the door, if we have

to. Or climb in through the window. Or something.” Freddie hung up

abruptly.

As a precaution, Lorinda immobilized the catflap before leaving. Doing

so gave her a strange pang. Would she be bringing Pud - Roscoe - back

with her to take up residence? What had Macho foreseen in his future to

wrest that promise from her?

“Hurry up!” Freddie was waiting impatiently, her face pale and drawn, at

Macho’s front door. “Let’s get this over with.” She began pushing at the

door.

“Why don’t we try the bell first?” Lorinda pushed it. “Just for form’s

sake.”

“Form!” Freddie snorted. “At a time like this!” They were both taken

aback when the door swung open suddenly and a stranger stood there.

Macho hadn’t mentioned that he was expecting a guest. The man looked

vaguely familiar, perhaps a relative…

“Macho!” Freddie recognized him first. “You’ve cut your hair. And

shaved. You do have a chin!”

“Come in.” Macho stepped back. “And thank you for those kind words,

Freddie. Of course I have a chin.”

“With that beard, who could tell?” Freddie shrugged. “I thought you grew

it because you were a chinless wonder.”

“Hmmph!” They had a fine view of the back of his head as they followed

him into the living room where Roscoe, obviously roused from his nap by

the doorbell, yawned and chirruped a greeting to them.

“Macho.” Lorinda eyed the uneven lengths of hair. He had clearly hacked

it off himself, perhaps in a fit of temper. “What did you do with your

ribbon?”

“Oh.” He looked slightly abashed. “I gave it to But-Known, she always

fancied it and I have no use for it any more.

“It’s an improvement.” Freddie eyed him critically. “At least,

it will be when you get those ends tidied up.” Neither of them quite

dared ask him why he had made this sudden drastic decision. There was an

awkward silence.

Roscoe stretched and gave them a bright-eyed appreciative look. He knew

what guests meant: food, drink, hospitality. He ambled towards the

kitchen.

“Coffee?” Macho offered, reminded of his responsibilities. “Or …

something else?” He seemed to listen to himself and added quickly.

“Sherry, I mean. Sherry? What time is it, anyway. I - I’ve lost track.”

“Coffee will be fine,” Lorinda said and Freddie nodded. “It’s about

eleven.”

“Elevenses, of course.” Macho nodded and seemed to get a firmer grip on

the situation. “It will be instant, I’m afraid, but I do have some cream

buns in the fridge.”

They all headed towards the kitchen. Lorinda and Freddie exchanged

glances behind Macho’s back. Something was wrong here. Was Macho going

to tell them about it?

“Now then…” It appeared not. Macho began fussing pleasantly with cups,

saucers, plates, putting the kettle on. He looked younger without so

much facial adornment - he’d left the moustache - and yet … more

careworn. The circles under his eyes were deeper and darker, his hands

trembled slightly. Lorinda and Freddie exchanged another glance, this

time with raised eyebrows, as he turned to the fridge.

“YAAAAAHHH!” A sudden cry of rage and despair brought them to their

feet. Macho had opened the fridge door and a precariously balanced

bottle had slid out and landed on his toe. He snatched it up and shook

it with a violence disproportionate to the little accident. He could not

have been seriously hurt. “You filthy -” They gaped in awe as they were

treated to a three-minute display of Elizabethan and Georgian obscenity.

At least, Lorinda thought that was what it was, there were few words she

even recognized.

“It isn’t what you say,” Freddie observed as Macho slowed down, “it’s

the way you say it.”

“Christ’s blood!” They were the first intelligible words he had uttered.

He shook the bottle savagely again, then took deliberate aim and hurled

it at the window.

“You’re through! Do you hear me?” he shouted. “You’re through! You’re

history! History-!” He slumped into a chair, leaned forward and buried

his face in his arms on the table.

“Macho!” Freddie deftly caught the bottle just before it crashed through

the window.

“What’s wrong?” Lorinda asked. “What is it?” “It’s -” Freddie squinted

at the bottle. “It’s tequila! The stuff

he always said he wouldn’t have in the house.” “I wouldn’t!” Macho

choked. “I don’t! Only … I keep finding it. Hidden all over the place.

Them - the bottles. And I never saw them before. I didn’t buy them. I

didn’t!”

Roscoe padded over and stretched up, putting his forepaws on his

master’s knee with an anxious little mewl. Macho scooped him up and

clutched him tightly.

“I’m starting a new series,” he told them defiantly. “I’m going into

historical mysteries. Listening to the rest of you talking about it set

me thinking. History is my field. I’m ready to go back to it.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Lorinda said cautiously. He seemed to

have a precarious hold on his nerves now and she did not want to

dislodge it. “History mystery is very popular right now. What period?”

“Sixteenth century. Venice, that’s popular, too. And -” He drew a deep

breath. “My private investigator will be Portia!”

“Portia?” Lorinda began to feel faintly giddy. “Portia who?” “I’ll sort

that out later.” Macho brushed the question aside. “Will didn’t

specify.”

“Will-?”

“If you’re going to steal.” Freddie was there ahead of her. “Steal from

the best.”

“Why not? He did.” Macho was still defiant. “Only it’s really borrowing

… following on … continuing the story…

“The story…” Lorinda said weakly.

“Yes. You see, Shylock was so impressed by her that, bearing no malice,

he turns to her when he finds himself in fresh trouble. His dearly

beloved daughter, Jessica, has disappeared. Dropped off the face of the

earth. Lorenzo has been seen without her and claims they had a fight and

she ran away from him and…”

Freddie set the bottle of tequila on the table in front of him with a

decisive thud. He trailed off and stared at it unseeingly.

“I’ll invent a new persona, too,” he said. “For my author’s biography,

I’ll be a lawyer turned journalist. You know how the media always hype

books by one of their own, and lawyers buy like money is going out of

fashion when one of their own has written a book. I suppose it’s because

both professions secretly think they could write bestsellers if they put

their minds to it and it fuels their dreams when one of them

succeeds…” Freddie tapped impatient fingernails on the bottle and

waited. “There’s another one under the sink,” he sighed, admitting

defeat. He rubbed his forehead against Roscoe’s head and closed his

eyes.

Lorinda opened the cupboard under the sink and retrieved a tequila

bottle. It was half full. She placed it on the table beside the other

one.

“I also found one at the back of the broom cupboard.” Macho spoke in a

listless voice, as one not expecting to be believed. “It isn’t the way

you think.”

There were two bottles in the broom cupboard, one in each far corner.

Both had been opened and partly depleted. She placed them on the table

beside the others.

“You might as well know the worst.” Macho sighed again and pushed back

his chair. Still clutching Roscoe, he led them into his study and

stopped by the desk. “The bottom drawer,” he croaked.

Expressionless, Freddie pulled out the drawer. There were two bottles of

tequila, one nearly finished, one unopened, and a glass with a tiny

puddle of liquor at the bottom of it. “That’s new.” Macho stared down

moodily into the drawer. “He hasn’t used a glass before.” He raised his

head and bellowed suddenly into the air, “Nice touch, you bastard!”

“Macho -” Lorinda started towards him. Roscoe twitched uneasily and

looked thoughtfully towards the carpet.

“I never bought them,” Macho said desperately. “I never drank any of it.

I’d swear to it! And yet… if I didn’t…” He glared at them, a

cornered animal at bay. “Who did? Only one person drinks tequila around

here!” He slumped down into his desk chair and slammed the drawer shut.

Lorinda realized abruptly that Freddie hadn’t tried to catch her eye in

quite some time.

“Don’t you see?” he pleaded. “It has to be Macho Magee. He

- He’s come to life. He’s stalking me. He - He’s moving in!” “That

can’t… really… be possible,” Freddie said slowly. She did not sound

entirely convinced.

“I haven’t seen him yet,” Macho said. “But the bottles are everywhere.

Those aren’t the only ones. I’ve thrown a lot away. But I keep finding

more. If I leave them in place, the level keeps going down, as though

someone has been drinking from them. And I’ve never touched the stuff!

At least … I don’t think I have.”

Freddie opened the drawer again and took out the glass. She raised it to

her nose and sniffed. Then she opened the bottle and carefully poured a

few drops into the palm of her hand. She touched them with her tongue

and grimaced.

“No, it isn’t water,” Macho said. “I checked. I’m not a complete fool,

you know. It’s the real - imported from Mexico - stuff - and that brand

sells for about twenty quid a bottle.”

“And we’ve found six bottles already,” Lorinda said. “Which makes it a

pretty expensive joke.” Freddie whistled soundlessly.

“There’ll be more bottles around. They keep turning up everywhere.

Places you can’t imagine. I found one in the cistern. No one in their

right mind would hide a bottle in a cistern -” Macho paused and seemed

to listen to himself.

“No one in their right mind,” he echoed. Roscoe gave a sudden indignant

yowl and fought for freedom. Macho released him and watched him drop to

the floor and walk some distance away before sitting down and beginning

to wash his face.

“Remember -” Macho met Lorinda’s eyes with desperate entreaty. “You said

you’d take care of Roscoe if … if anything ……. if they put me

away. You promised you’d take him.”

“And I will,” Lorinda promised again. “Unless they put me in the padded

cell next door to you. It looks as though it might fall to Freddie to

take care of all three cats.”

“Much as I’d like to oblige,” Freddie said, “I wouldn’t advise you to

count on me. The way things are going, you’ll find me in the padded cell

on the other side.” “What are you talking about?” Macho looked from one

to the other with a faint puzzled hope beginning to dawn on his face.

“You find bottles.” Since she had started it, Lorinda accepted that she

should go first. “I found Miss Petunia’s pince-nez, but they disappeared

again and I keep finding chapters I haven’t written.” There was no need

at the moment to confess to the chapters she had written. “And the

latest wrinkle was a message from Marigold on my answering machine that

disappeared when I tried to replay it.”

“Then it’s not just me.” Macho quivered with relief. They both turned to

look at Freddie.

“OK,” Freddie said. “I can admit it now. Wraith O’Reilly has staked out

the old graveyard. I keep seeing her there. Just glimpses, almost out of

the corner of my eye, a flash of red hair, a flutter of the grey skirt.

She’s gone when I try to approach for a closer look. So far, she’s

confined herself to the graveyard, but I sometimes wonder for how much

longer. It scares the hell out of me to think that I might turn around

some day and find her in the house with me.”

“That’s it exactly!” Macho said. “Where is he? What is he doing? What

does he want? There’s no overt threat, but the feeling of menace is

there underneath.”

“Actually,” Lorinda said, “mine are threatening. Miss Petunia and Lily

are definitely out to get me. Marigold is softer and kinder, but she

always is. Of course,” she added apologetically, “I’m afraid I’ve given

them good reason to be annoyed with me.

“Wait a minute,” Freddie said. “Wait a minute. We’re talking about

fictional characters. These people are all figments of our imaginations.

Let’s all pull ourselves together and try to be sensible about this.”

“That’s right.” Macho was looking better. “We can’t all be going mad.

And in the same way. Can we?”

“Highly unlikely,” Freddie said. “Someone has to be behind this.”

“A common enemy,” Lorinda said, feeling both relieved and frightened by

the thought.

“Who do we know who hates us all?” Macho asked. “One of us, perhaps.

Possibly even two. But all three? And who would go to such lengths?”

“It’s a rotten joke,” Lorinda said.

“It’s too nasty to be a joke. There’s genuine malice there, Macho said.

“That’s right,” Freddie agreed. “Trying to make us think we’re losing

our sanity is hitting below the belt.” She grimaced. “That didn’t come

out right, but you know what I mean.

“What enemy do we have in common?” Macho was single-minded in his

determination to track down the culprit. “Think!”

“I wonder if there are any more,” Lorinda said. “We each thought we were

the only one it was happening to. Now that we’ve found we’re not … how

many more of us do you think there are?”

“Not Karla,” Freddie said, after a reflective moment. “She spends all

her spare time locked in mortal combat with Jack. An army of backpackers

could march through that house and neither of them would even notice.”

“And Rhylla has Clarice living with her right now,” Lorinda contributed.

“She’s completely caught up with trying to work and keep the child busy.

Clarice also has sharp little eyes and an inquiring mind. No one could

try any of these tricks with her around.”

“Whereas we live alone,” Macho said slowly. “When we’re working, two or

three days can pass without our seeing anyone. We don’t have any human

contact until we run out of supplies and have to go shopping. That makes

us … vulnerable … to someone who is trying to turn our own

imaginations against us.”

“What about Dorian?” Lorinda had a sudden thought. “He lives alone, too.

Perhaps that’s why he went off on that cruise so suddenly. Things have

been happening to him, too, and he decided to get away - as far as he

could go…” She trailed off; Freddie was shaking her head with a

slightly condescending smile.

“Haven’t you sussed that one out? Our Dorian went on that cruise because

the cruise line were paying him to go. He was a guest lecturer on the

English mystery and doubled as detective on one of those Murder Mystery

Cruises they run every so often. He got a free trip, expenses and a

small honorarium for a very pleasant job.” “Trust Dorian!” Macho said

bitterly.

“I’m sure,” Freddie added, “he also sold a good many of his own books to

the happy holidaymakers and got in plenty of publicity for the tours

he’s planning to run through here.”

“What a busy little beaver.” Lorinda was bitter, too. “Right, but that

also means he’s too wrapped up in his own machinations to take time out

to play games with us - or to notice anyone trying to play games with

him.”

“Then who hates us that much?” Lorinda felt chilled. “It keeps coming

back to that.”

“There is one person…” Macho said slowly. “Ask yourselves: who has

always had it in for us? Who has jeered at and humiliated us at every

opportunity? Who has a cruel and vicious streak in him? And’ - Macho was

warming to his theme - “who could very easily get his hands on a case of

tequila - and probably at a discount?” “Plantagenet Sutton!” Lorinda

identified correctly.

“Good thinking, chums.” Freddie applauded silently. “There’s just one

little flaw in it. Plantagenet Sutton is dead.”

“Yes…” Macho deflated slowly.

“And our problems are still going on,” Freddie pointed out. “I take it

that bottle of tequila wasn’t in your refrigerator the last time you

looked?”

“No,” he admitted. “Of course it wasn’t.”

“My latest episode happened after his death,” Lorinda agreed. “Well

after. But they started before.”

“That’s right. So did mi’ Macho broke off abruptly, staring

at Roscoe. Roscoe had halted his ablutions, one hind leg still pointing

skywards, and raised his head, ears cocked, listening intently to

something they could not hear.

“What is it, boy?” Macho looked around the room, looked over his

shoulder, looked back to Roscoe. “What do you hear?”

After a moment, they heard it themselves. The all-too-familiar whoop of

an approaching ambulance.

Roscoe scrambled for safety as they leaped out of their chairs and

charged across the room.

“Whoa! Slow down!” Freddie recovered herself first. “We’re

in the wrong business to be ambulance chasers.” “It’s stopped in front

of Coffers Court.” Macho reached the High Street first and reported back

to them as they came panting up to join him.

“Maybe Rhylla has finally snapped and murdered that kid,” Freddie

suggested. Macho threw her an impatient look before turning and leading

the way along the High Street.

They hurried towards Coffers Court, where a small cluster of onlookers

had already materialized on the pavement outside. There was a buzz of

excited speculation, fragments of which met their ears.

“Throat cut ear to ear…”

“No, burglary and they bludgeoned

“Gas fire exploded. Lucky the whole place didn’t go up…” The rumour

factory was working well, Lorinda realized, but hard facts did not

appear to be available.

“Isn’t it awful?” Jennifer Lane greeted them. “What happened?” Freddie

asked.

“We’re not quite sure yet.” Jennifer watched avidly as one of the medics

carried a stretcher in. “But something serious.”

“Used to be a nice quiet village,” someone muttered behind them. “Before

that lot moved in.”

“There’s gratitude for you,” Freddie observed, adding unfairly, “This

place was a dead-and-alive hole before we moved in.”

“Now dead is winning,” the voice hit back. “Who’s… hurt?” Lorinda

intervened, trying to recall Freddie

to decorum. This was not the time to antagonize the villagers. “Has

Gemma been taken ill again?” Gemma had never really looked quite well

since her mysterious gastric upset. Lorinda stepped back and scanned the

windows, but the curtains defeated her. In the absence of a light in

Gemma’s living room, nothing of the inside could be seen.

To her embarrassment, the curtain was pulled back abruptly and Gemma was

staring out at her over the window box. She said something Lorinda could

not hear and Karla appeared in the window beside her. Gemma battled

briefly to open the window. Karla gesticulated frantically and

puzzlingly over Gemma’s shoulder.

“What’s going on?” Gemma won and leaned out of the window. “Can you see?

They won’t let us out into the foyer.” From somewhere behind her, there

came the sound of sobbing.

“Listen, don’t let them shove you around like that!” Karla said, shoving

Gemma aside to take her place at the open window. “Come in here with us.

Tell them you’re visiting Gemma. And take a good look at what’s going on

as you come through the hall.”

It sounded worth a try. Macho was already shouldering his way through

the crowd. Lorinda and Freddie fell in behind him. After a momentary

hesitation, Jennifer Lane followed them. You couldn’t blame her for

trying, either.

The paramedic just inside the door was not happy about allowing them

through, but realized his authority did not extend to barring visitors

to residents, especially as Gemma was standing in her open doorway

beckoning them on.

Macho stood back and gallantly waved the women ahead of him, thus

ensuring that he had more time to take in the situation. In her brief

glimpse, Lorinda saw that two of the medical team were standing at the

opened doors of the lift, leaning into it and looking down. The

stretcher-bearers, led by an anxious Gordie wringing his hands, were

being ushered to the stairs leading down to his quarters, the boxrooms -

and the bottom of the lift shaft. Gemma let them into her flat, even

Jennifer, then tried to bar the way to Macho. “I’m sorry,” she said,

“but this is a private -Oh!”

“That’s right,” Freddie turned back. “You do know him. Macho’s just

changing his image.

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. Forgive me.” Thoroughly flustered, Gemma

closed the door behind them and leaned against it, still staring

incredulously at Macho. “Uuuh, it’s very effective.”

“So you gotta haircut,” Jack greeted him. “About time. And the beard is

gone, too. Good. Hey, you do have a chin!”

“Yes.” Macho ground his teeth, chin jutted forward. “Gonna keep the old

soup-strainer, are you?” No one could ever accuse Jack of being

sensitive to the nuances of a situation. Lorinda became aware of another

set of teeth grinding. They were Karla’s.

“Do you have to be such an asshole?” she snarled at her husband.

Now that they were in the living room, Lorinda could trace the source of

the sobbing. Rhylla clasped a shuddering, shaking Clarice to her bosom,

rocking her, patting her back, murmuring soothing meaningless sounds.

“I’m afraid poor little Clarice discovered the body,” Professor Borley

informed them in measured tones.

Betty Alvin was making no sound at all. She sat in a corner

of the room, her back to the wall, her face whiter than the paint on the

woodwork. A glass of dark-brown liquid was clasped in her hands,

unnoticed, untouched. She appeared to be in deep shock.

“Perhaps you could talk to Betty,” Professor Borley said. “I just can’t

seem to get through to her.”

“What’s the matter with her?” Freddie asked. “I thought it was Clarice

who found the body.”

“Well, yes. But Betty was the last to see her alive.” He lowered his

voice. “I’m afraid Betty blames herself.”

Betty Alvin seemed to make a habit of blaming herself, Lorinda thought

in faint irritation. That was probably why Dorian liked having her

around. Betty was one of life’s martyrs, always ready to be put-upon,

always ready to take any blame that was going around. And Dorian was

very good at apportioning blame.

Outside, another siren sounded briefly, but was quickly silenced, as

though acknowledging that there was no reason to hurry any more. Lorinda

glanced out of the window in time to see a Fire Rescue van pull up in

front of the building. A police car was immediately behind it.

Macho had been looking around the room like the teacher He once was,

taking roll call. Now he turned to Gemma and asked, “Where’s Ondine?”

The question brought a fresh paroxysm of tears from Clarice and a faint

protesting moan from Betty. Rhylla hugged Clarice closer. Gemma bent to

stroke the dogs at her feet. Professor Borley cleared his throat and

looked thoughtful. No one seemed in any hurry to answer. “Well, hell,

they’re gonna have to know,” Jack said. “Thing is, she’s at the bottom

of the elevator shaft.”

“Wha-at?”

“Lift, you idiot!” Karla snapped. “They don’t say elevator. She’s

at the bottom of the lift shaft. Well, not exactly. The lift is at the

bottom of the shaft, she fell on top of the lift.”

“Hey!” Ignoring her criticism, Jack had stalked over to the window.

“There’s a Fire Rescue truck out there.”

“Sure, there is,” Karla said. “It’s going to take some doing to get her

out of the lift shaft. The ambulance people can’t do it all by

themselves.” “It’s all my fault,” Betty Alvin moaned. “All my fault.”

“Don’t be silly, Betty,” Gemma said. “You didn’t push her … Did you?”

“No, but I fought with her.” Betty seemed to be recovering; she noticed

the drink in her hand and took a swallow. “That is, she fought with me.

I was trying to be reasonable and explain that I couldn’t take on her

work at a moment’s notice. I had too much else to do. It’s all piled up

and I’m trying to get through it as fast as I can. I told her I was

working on your book -” She glanced at Rhylla. “And Dorian brought

stacks of notes back from that cruise and he wants them all sorted out.

Then I’m in touch with Plantagenet Sutton’s sister-in-law about clearing

the flat. She wants me to do it - but I don’t have the time, I really

don’t.”

“All right, all right,” Professor Borley soothed. “Take it easy. We’re

on your side.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you, Abbey.” She smiled at him gratefully.

“Anyway, she kept trying to persuade me to drop Rhylla’s work and do

hers instead. When I wouldn’t, she got angrier and angrier and … more

abusive. She began saying perfectly awful things to me - and, of course,

that didn’t make me want to help her at all. I - I’m afraid I was rather

sharp with her.”

“Quite right, too,” Rhylla said. “Ondine was always a bully on any

committee she sat on. And bad-tempered with it.”

“That’s right,” Betty said. “She lost her temper completely and,

finally, she stormed out and I could hear her stamping down the stairs

and the door at the foot of the stairs slammed. And … and that must

have been when it happened, but I didn’t hear anything because I went

into the bathroom to take a couple of aspirins. She must have tried to

get into the lift on the floor below - that’s as far as it comes up -

they didn’t bother about the attic when they put it in. I suppose it was

only used to store old records in those days and it never occurred to

anyone that the place wouldn’t be a bank forever and that people might

be living here some day.

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” she added quickly. “I quite like the privacy

of having my own little staircase. It gives me a bit of warning if

someone is coming up to see me - Oh, not that I mind people coming

unannounced! No one must think they’re intruding -” She broke off in

confusion, realizing how much she was betraying and took another

swallow.

Now that it was called to Lorinda’s attention, she realized she had been

guilty of such behaviour herself. In the comparatively short time she

had been living here, there had been more than one occasion when she had

mounted those attic stairs unannounced with a small sheaf of letters to

be properly transcribed and dispatched. She could tell from the

expressions on Freddie’s and Macho’s faces that she had not been alone

in this transgression.

“So Ondine van Zeet went plunging down the stairs in a rage and that was

the last you knew about it.” Professor Borley led Betty Alvin back to

the subject gently.

“Yes … until I heard Clarice screaming. But that was some time

later. I … I went downstairs to … to investigate. I … I

found Clarice standing in front of the lift. The doors were open, but

the lift wasn’t there. I pulled Clarice back and leaned forward and

looked down myself and… and… I saw her. Dimly. Sprawled on … on

top of the lift.” Betty gave up the battle, groped for her handkerchief

and allowed the tears to flow.

Clarice, on the other hand, had become calmer. Listening to the events

as recounted by Betty, she nodded agreement and pushed herself free of

Rhylla, who let her go with obvious relief, flexing her cramped arms.

“It sounds typical,” Rhylla said. “I heard the door to the attic stairs

slam. I didn’t think it was Betty, but I wasn’t interested enough to

care who it was, which is just as well. Ondine would have been,

literally, in a blind fury. She must have seen the lift doors were open

and quite naturally thought the lift was standing there. She’d have

hurled herself into it and

“But -” It was Karla who asked the salient question. “Why were the lift

doors open without the lift being there? That’s dangerous. I know it’s

an ancient contraption, but I thought even in those days, they had

safety rules. The doors shouldn’t open unless the lift was at that

floor.”

“Kids!” A new bitter voice said. “You have kids around the place, you

get them fooling around, messing up everything.” An exhausted, harassed

Gordie stood in the doorway, glaring at Clarice.

“I didn’t!” Clarice screamed. “I never touched those doors! Why would I

do a thing like that?”

“You’re a kid,” Gordie said. “Kids will do anything. You probably

thought it would be funny if someone fell down the lift shaft.”

“No! I didn’t! I didn’t!” Clarice hurled herself back into her

grandmother’s arms, bursting into tears.

“All right, that’s enough!” Rhylla snapped at Gordie. “That’s a serious

accusation and you have no right to say such a thing. If you ever repeat

it, I’ll sue!” “Gordie, what are you doing here?” Gemma was staring at

him in some perplexity. “How did you get in?”

“Oh, the door was ajar.” Gordie wrenched his baleful gaze away from

Rhylla and Clarice, obviously struggling to bring his mind back to the

more mundane subject. “I knocked, but nobody seemed to hear me so…”

He shrugged.

“The Rescue Services sent me.” His voice grew firmer as he cited a

higher authority. “They want me to make sure everybody stays put for the

next few minutes. They don’t want anyone straying out into the main

hall. You see’ - he looked at them with grim relish - “they’re bringing

out the body now.

12

As soon as the ambulance had driven away from Coffers Court with its

grim burden, the gathering split up abruptly. In the marble hall, the

yellow tapes sealing off the area around the lift were an uneasy

reminder that the police would be investigating this incident.

Gordie stood irresolutely by Gemma’s door for a few minutes, but only

Clarice paid any attention to him, sticking her tongue out as she passed

him. Rhylla had noticed, but made no comment; she held Clarice’s hand

tightly as they started up the two flights of stairs to her flat.

“I’d better get back to my workroom,” Gordie said, quite as though

someone had invited him to stay. “I expect the police will want to talk

to me.” He sent a malevolent glance after Clarice. “They’ll want to know

what could have happened with the lift doors and all that.” There was

little doubt as to what he would tell them and who he would blame. It

did not make anyone feel any more kindly disposed towards him and they

allowed him to depart unhindered.

Professor Borley swept Betty Alvin and Jennifer Lane up to his flat for

further refreshment. Gemma decided that it was a matter of urgency that

she walk the dogs at once.

Lorinda wanted to check on the cats and Freddie and Macho had naturally

gravitated towards the house with her. Somehow, Karla and Jack had

tagged along, happily unaware that they were blocking the conversation

that would otherwise have ensued.

Had-I was furious and complaining, But-Known was resigned. Had-I marched

over to the catflap and bumped her head against it several times,

demonstrating the extent of her captivity and her annoyance. But-Known,

curled up on a kitchen chair, watched with one open eye, waiting to see

what would result.

Lorinda sighed and went to the fridge. Had-I slowed her tirade and began

to relent. Oh, well, if she was going to apologize properly…

But-Known yawned, stretched and slithered to the floor, sauntering over

to join Had-I at the fridge. This was more like it . Last night’s

leftovers were quite acceptable, thank you. They watched with approval

and some surprise as she scraped out the casserole into their dishes.

She hoped they weren’t betraying the fact that, if she hadn’t brought

company back with her, she might have just put the casserole down and

left it to their rough little tongues to do the scraping.

As it was, only Freddie had an amused smile. Karla and Jack obviously

weren’t attuned to feline attitudes and the cats’ silent communication

went over their heads. Macho was too bemused to notice. With relief,

Lorinda led everyone into the living room and dispensed drinks, but

first she snapped on all the lamps against the encroaching darkness.

“If you ask me, there are a helluva lot of accidents here for one little

village,” Jack said, rubbing his injured arm. “Now, if all this had

happened in one of your books…” He let the uncomfortable thought lie

there.

“Jerk!” Karla said. “Most of what happens in life is too unbelievable to

put into a book. We all know that. We have to tone it down to make it

seem real.” “Coincidences abound in real life,” Macho agreed, but looked

as though he might be having second thoughts about it. “At least, we

always assume they’re coincidences.

“Aaaaarrreeeooow…” The long plaintive wail rose outside the windows

and Macho leapt to his feet.

“Roscoe!” He rushed to the window and threw it open. He was nearly

knocked over as the large orange tom flew past him into the room.

“Roscoe…” He closed the window again and turned to stare

at his pet, who was now sitting complacently at his feet. “How did you

get out?”

Because someone else got in? Lorinda wondered whether there was now

another bottle of tequila lurking somewhere in Macho’s house, waiting to

be discovered. Or perhaps something worse. The fictional Macho Magee had

an unfortunate disposition towards finding naked female corpses in

various corners of his seedy office-cum-dwelling. It would be a natural

progression of the harassment campaign being waged, but, if it had not

occurred to him, she did not want to be the one to put it into his mind.

“That cat gets bigger every time I look at him,” Jack said. “You got him

on steroids, or something?”

“Don’t be insulting,” Macho huffed. “Some breeds are just naturally

large.”

Roscoe blinked amiably at them both. When neither food nor affection was

forthcoming, he got up and ambled towards the kitchen where the faint

sound of bowls scraping along the linoleum could be heard.

Jack opened his mouth, perhaps to question Roscoe’s pedigree, but the

doorbell cut across him. Before anyone could move to answer, it rang

again. And again. Someone without much patience was intent on entry.

“Hello, Dorian.” Lorinda opened the door, winning the mental bet with

herself.

“Your telephone is out of order,” he said irritably. “I’ve been trying

to get you.”

“Oh?” This was not the moment to explain that she had unplugged it when

she went out. The fear of coming back to find another sinister message

waiting had been too much for her. “Come in.”

“Where’s Betty?” Dorian halted in the doorway and looked around the room

with dissatisfaction. “I thought she’d be here. I can’t find her

anywhere else.” “She’s with Professor Borley,” Karla said. “At least,

she was when we left.”

“I’ve tried Abbey. He isn’t there.” Dorian looked at the glass

of Scotch Lorinda had automatically given him and tasted it

suspiciously. “Or else he isn’t answering the telephone.”

That was only too possible. Lorinda was in no hurry to plug hers back

in.

“Perhaps they went out for a meal.” Karla shrugged. “Or maybe they went

back to the bookshop with Jennifer. She was there, too.

“Why does everybody call him Abbey?” The question had evidently been

bothering Jack for some time. “I know his initials are A.B., which I’d

pronounce Abie. So why the Abbey stuff?”

“Because his name is Borley,” Dorian said impatiently. “Don’t you see

it?”

“See what?” It was clear he didn’t.

“Borley Abbey,” Freddie elucidated. “The most haunted place

in Britain.” He still looked blank. “It’s a joke,” she explained. “An

English joke.” His voice was flat as he found the joke. “That’s right,

dear.” With Dorian present, Karla cooed sweetly. “It’s over your head.”

“You didn’t get it, either,” he snarled. “And I’ll give you odds Borley

doesn’t think it’s funny.

“On the contrary,” Dorian said. “He was quite amused. Once I’d explained

it to him.”

“I’ll bet,” Jack said. “The guy’s got a proper name, hasn’t he? Why the

hell don’t you let him use it?”

“Dorian -” Freddie broke into the dialogue. “You do know, don’t you?”

“Know?” He looked blank. “About Ondine?”

“Oh, that. Yes. Gordie reported to me. That was why I was trying to get

hold of Betty. We’ll need to draft a press release. Notify her

publishers, agent, relatives…” He faltered, perhaps sensing that he

was not quite in accord with his audience. “It’s all very sad,” he said

quickly. “But she wasn’t a young woman, nor, I suspect, a particularly

well one. It’s just very unfortunate that it happened here, when she’d

just moved in an -

The doorbell made them all jump. Lorinda hurried to answer

it. She was conscious of a muted yapping as she approached, so it was no

surprise when she opened the door. “Hello, Gemma.” The pugs at Gemma’s

feet surged forward, then stopped and moved back uneasily.

Lorinda glanced over her shoulder to see Had-I and But-Known advancing

with a territorial glint in their eyes. Roscoe followed behind them,

bristled up to nearly twice his size, clearly ready to do battle for his

females.

“Come in,” Lorinda invited, crossing her fingers and hoping for the

best. Gemma looked even more upset than the last time she had seen her.

“Yes, thank you. Come on!” Gemma tugged at the leashes, but Conqueror

and Lionheart had suddenly become reluctant to enter the hallway.

“Behave yourselves,” Lorinda said over her shoulder to the cats. They

paused and waited in ominous docility.

“I beg your pardon?” Gemma was startled. “Oh -” She looked beyond

Lorinda. “I see. Come on. She tugged at the leashes again. “They’re not

going to bother you.

With faint apologetic whines and bellies low, Conqueror and Lionheart

scurried past the cats, keeping close to Gemma’s ankles for protection.

The cats watched implacably.

“Stay there,” Lorinda said to them, firmly closing the door behind her.

“I’m sorry,” Gemma said. “I just couldn’t go home. I tried. I got there

just as the light over the front entrance went on, and - and I could see

it! In big black letters! I couldn’t walk under

it. I couldn’t go in. “See what?” Lorinda asked. Behind her, the

doorknob rattled. She tried to ignore it.

“The graffiti.” Gemma looked frightened. “Someone has crossed out the

“ERS” of COFFERS and written “IN” over it, so that the name reads COFFIN

COURT. I couldn’t- “So now it’s vandalism!” Dorian exploded, more upset

by that than he had been by Ondine’s death.

There was a decisive click and Lorinda felt a draught on the back of her

legs. The cats marched past her purposefully and took up commanding

positions in front of the fireplace. The pugs cringed closer to Gemma,

who was watching Dorian and didn’t notice.

“Vandals!” Dorian raged. “They didn’t chip off the bas-relief letters,

did they?” he asked in sudden anxiety. “That would cost a fortune to

repair. It was just the black paint?” “Feelings are running pretty high

in this town,” Jack said. “Next thing will be broken windows,” he added,

as Dorian winced. He didn’t appear to find anything strange in Dorian’s

attitude, but Lorinda was beginning to ask herself just why Dorian

seemed to be taking it so personally.

“Just the paint,” Gemma said. “I’m sure Gordie will be able to clean it

up. It will be quite a job for him, though. He’ll have to scrub for

hours. It’s very messy.”

“If Gordie had been doing his duty, it wouldn’t have happened

in the first place,” Dorian snapped. “He should have been keeping watch

at the door.

“Gordie has had his hands full today,” Freddie pointed out. “He must be

exhausted. I wouldn’t blame him if he went to bed for the rest of the

week with the covers pulled over his head.”

“I’ll go over there and speak to him now.” There wasn’t much chance of

that with Dorian around. “If he starts on the graffiti now, he should

have it cleaned up by morning.”

“You expect him to work all night?” Karla was scandalized. “If he’d been

doing his job properly, it wouldn’t be necessary. He brought it on

himself.”

“An awful lot of people around here seem to bring things on themselves,”

Jack muttered. “At least, that’s what other people keep telling them.”

He rubbed his arm and flexed his fingers experimentally. He looked from

Dorian to his wife, suspicious and unforgiving.

But Dorian had been on the terrace when Jack fell or was pushed - into

the bonfire. Hadn’t he? Lorinda realized suddenly that they knew the

moment Jack had been found smouldering in the ashes, but there was no

conveniently broken watch to register the moment he actually had been

pushed.

“You’d better leave poor Gordie alone for a while.” There was

a distinctly bossy note in Karla’s voice, perhaps she’d forgotten it was

not her husband she was addressing. “Morning is time enough for him to

worry about graffiti. He’s going to have to clean up the top of the lift

first, isn’t he? Before it can be put back into service again.”

Although both true and practical, the pragmatic statement was too

graphic for its hearers. There was an abrupt deep imbibing of drink in

the silence that followed.

Inadvertently, Lorinda intercepted the look Dorian shot at Karla. It

went through her like an electric shock. It was as embarrassing as

finding you’d opened someone else’s letter by mistake, as disturbing as

though that letter had been a piece of hate mail.

Lorinda recalled abruptly that Jack and Karla had been dressed alike on

Bonfire Night. In the darkness and excitement, it would have been quite

easy for the wrong Jackley to receive that nearly fatal push.

“SSSssss…” … “RRrrreeeeeoooow…” … “Aarrfff…” The uneasy

truce was over. Hostilities broke out.

“No! Stop!” Gemma tugged at the leashes, ignoring the fact that the dogs

were already scuttling for shelter behind her.

“Had-I, But-Known - No!” Lorinda tried, although she could see it was

useless.

“Roscoe!” Macho frowned, but the effect was lost because his tone

sounded admiring rather than censorious.

Paying no attention to human protests, the cats advanced on their prey.

Almost languidly, Had-I stretched out a paw and raked the air an inch

from Conqueror’s nose. He backed away, yelping as though the claws had

connected with his tender nose. Lionheart wriggled forward a bit, but

Roscoe gave a warning growl and he retreated again. Even But-Known had

the light of battle in her eyes; no canine was going to infringe on her

territory. She feinted wildly, with more enthusiasm than skill.

Conqueror yelped and reared back so sharply he pulled the end of his

leash out of Gemma’s hand. She turned to go after him and Lionheart got

away.

“Back!” Gemma flapped her hands at the inexorably advancing cats. “Get

back!”

But the only ones backing were the pugs. Not daring to take their eyes

off the cats, they slunk backwards until their rumps collided with the

wall and there was no escape.

“Had-I, that’s enough! But-Known, stop it! You, too, Roscoe!” Lorinda

might just as well have never spoken. She circled round behind the cats,

waiting for her moment to swoop on Had-I, who was definitely the

ringleader and bully-in-chief.

Gemma had abandoned her flapping motions and was making suggestive

little movements of her feet.

Don’t you dare! Lorinda shot her a look as menacing as any of the cats’

and Gemma subsided into shuffling.

“I can’t understand it,” Gemma complained. “They all got on

so well in my place the other day.” Because they were the invaders. But

this was not the moment

to explain. “Throw a bucket of water over them!” Jack and Karla had

retreated to the far side of the room. It was clear that they were not

going to get involved. Dorian had retreated just far enough to stay

clear of the action, but not so far as to be suspected of opting out,

although no one in their right mind … mind … would have looked for

help from that quarter to begin with.

“Really, I think we’d better go now. Gemma tried to recapture the

leashes. “Conqueror! Lionheart! Come along! Home!”

The dogs were more than willing, but the cats blocked their way. With an

anxious whine, Conqueror tried to sidle along the wall, but Had-I cut

him off. Roscoe kept Lionheart paralysed with a baleful stare.

“Call off your cats.” Jack was full of bright suggestions. “Let the poor

dogs go.”

“Have you ever tried to call off a cat?” Freddie’s question was

rhetorical. Jack obviously knew nothing about feline characteristics.

Abruptly, the final onslaught erupted in a flurry of slashing, flashing

paws, against high-pitched yelps and scurryings. Hisses, yowls and

spitting imprecations filled the air.

Conqueror was the first to crack. He slithered down and rolled over,

belly up, waving helpless paws in the air. Lionheart hesitated only a

second longer, then Roscoe’s paw caught him across the nose and he

joined Conqueror in abject surrender, whining.

“Those dogs’ - Dorian looked down at them with distaste - “give an

entirely new dimension to the expression pussy-whipped.”

The cats hovered menacingly over the pugs for a moment longer then,

honour satisfied and no doubt as to the victors, they exchanged glances

and strolled away.

“Come along!” Gemma had the leashes now and tugged the dogs to their

feet.

“I’ll walk you back,” Dorian said. “I want to have that talk with

Gordie.”

“I still think you should leave him alone for tonight,” Karla

volunteered. “I told you, he’s had a rotten day.”

“And I think I’ll go up to London for a few days tomorrow,” Dorian added

reflectively.

“Again?” Karla was indignant. “You’re always going up to London. What’s

the big attraction up there?”

Dorian looked at her with almost as much distaste as he had shown for

the cringing dogs. For a moment, Lorinda thought he might be going to

tell her. “Work.” He slid away from confrontation. “There are several

projects that require my attention.”

“Yeah?” Karla’s tone was unpleasant. “Did it ever occur to you that

there might be a few projects around here that require your attention?”

Lorinda stooped and gathered up Had-I and But-Known, trying to pretend

that the conversation was meaningless to her. It was so embarrassing

when people thought that they were talking to each other in code,

unaware that their listeners had long since cracked the code.

“I told you,” Dorian said, a trifle testily. “I’ll see to it that Gordie

cleans up the building immediately. That’s the main priority. Anything

else can wait until I get back.”

“Don’t be too sure of that.” Karla was glaring at him. Jack was glaring,

too, but probably for a different reason. Even the most untalented can

eventually crack a code when it becomes blatant enough.

Lorinda hoped Dorian was learning his lesson and that this would be the

last time he got involved with impressionable women he met abroad. She

wondered whether there might be a further influx from the contacts he

had made on his cruise. Dorian, pouring on that Olde-English charm and

those tropical nights at sea, would undoubtedly have proved a dangerous

combination on a shipful of vulnerable ladies looking for romance.

She had a further disquieting thought: with the deaths of Plantagenet

Sutton and Ondine van Zeet, there was now accommodation available again

at Coffers Court.

“The sooner that disgraceful mess over the entrance is removed, the

better!” Gemma sailed through the front door as Dorian opened it for

her. “And if you have to pay Gordie double for overtime, it will be

worth it.”

The door slammed behind them with a vehemence that betrayed Dorian’s

opinion of that idea. Gordie would be lucky to be paid at all; he was

more likely to get a lecture on his carelessness in allowing the

graffiti artist to operate in the first place.

“We’d better go, too.” Jack had a firm grip on Karla’s arm with his good

hand. “Maybe I oughta get down and take a picture of the defaced

building before Gordie gets scrubbing and destroys the evidence.”

“Evidence? What are you talking about?” Karla was prepared

to fight about anything. Luckily, they kept moving towards the door.

“What do you mean, evidence?”

“The way things are going around here, who can tell?” Jack opened the

door.

“Yeah? Well, you’d better not let Dorian catch you taking any pictures.

He wouldn’t like it.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I don’t care what Dorian likes. Some people around

here may think he’s God Almighty, but I sure as hell don’t! He can -“

The door slammed behind them. The sudden silence was so peaceful no one

wanted to disturb

it. There were faint exhalations of relief and a few throbbing purrs as

they sank limply into the nearest chairs and the cats found welcoming

laps.

“Coffin Court…” Freddie mused aloud eventually. “That will

be Clarice’s doing, I suspect.” “She’s the only one small enough and

agile enough to scramble up over the arch and get at the lettering,”

Lorinda agreed. “Also, she has the best motive. Gordie insulted her and

this will cause him maximum annoyance and extra work.”

“It’s always a mistake to antagonize a clever child.” Macho spoke with

the full weight of his schoolmastering experience behind him. “It’s

better to have them with you than against you. They have ways of getting

their own back that would never occur to unwary adults. Gordie will be

lucky if she stops there.”

“I’m not sure I begrudge her a little revenge,” Freddie said. “That was

a very nasty accusation for Gordie to make.”

“And a highly unlikely one,” Macho added. “Clarice has never appeared to

be a child who was fascinated by machinery. Fooling about with the lift

isn’t Clarice’s sort of game. She’s far more interested in trying to

manipulate poor Rhylla.”

“I’ve seen her with those black-felt marking pens,” Lorinda said. “I

hope Gordie hasn’t noticed. Or that he doesn’t put two and two together.

He could give Clarice a very bad time.”

“And vice versa,” Macho said. “He’d better be very careful about taking

her on. She’s younger, faster and, I suspect, a great deal smarter than

he is. She could teach him a trick or two.”

“Tricks…” Freddie looked at them. “Do you suppose Clarice could be

behind what’s been happening to us?”

“Not with tequila involved,” Macho pointed out. “No wine merchant would

risk losing his licence by selling spirits to an underaged child. It

would mean prosecution. And where would she get that much money?”

“If an adult bought the tequila - a case of it, as you said before.”

Freddie was reluctant to relinquish the idea. “Clarice could slip into

your house and plant the bottles, or pour drinks out of them down the

sink and no one would notice.”

“All other considerations apart’ - Macho gave her an oldfashioned look -

“if you were up to no good, would you choose Clarice for an accomplice?”

“Perhaps not,” Freddie admitted, after a moment’s reflection. “Not

unless I were Rhylla - and I can’t see her doing any of this.”

“No,” Lorinda agreed. “It’s too … vicious.” “The cap fits Plantagenet

Sutton to perfection. Only… Macho hesitated. “I suppose he is dead?

It’s not some kind of double bluff…?”

“Believe me,” Freddie said, “he isn’t going to jump out of the woodwork

at the last minute, tearing off a false beard. This isn’t a Hitchcock

film or one of Dame Agatha’s plots.” “We saw the body.” Lorinda

shuddered. “He was dead, all right.”

“All wrong…” Macho hesitated again before venturing a new theory. “Of

course, Dorian has a pretty warped sense of humour. Look at that dummy

on top of the bonfire. I believe Dorian would have stood by and not said

anything, even if someone risked their life trying to rescue it.”

There was a thoughtful silence. It was not a theory that could

be refuted instantly. “Dorian persuaded us all to move here,” Lorinda

said. “Straight into his clutches.” Macho nodded. “But why should he

hate us so much?” Freddie asked. “It’s not as though we were more

successfu] than he is. We’re all pretty much on a level pegging; doing

well, nothing spectacular, but comfortably situated.”

“Who knows what might upset Dorian?” Macho was still looking on the dark

side. “He’s been going for a long time now and readers can be fickle.

Perhaps they’re tiring of Field Marshal Sir Oliver Aldershot and turning

to newer creations - like ours. Although,” he added plaintively, “what

with the political and the historical perspective changing, I suspect

Macho Magee may have just about run his course, too. So why pick on me?”

“Perhaps because you’re young enough to start a new series,” Freddie

said. “And he’s out of ideas.”

“But Karla isn’t,” Lorinda said quietly.

“Right!” Freddie glanced at her approvingly. “The problem is that Karla

still has Jack attached and in line for a half share of her copyrights

in the event of a divorce. The bonfire ploy didn’t finish him off but..

.” She paused significantly. “He was at Coffers Court when Ondine died.

It’s possible that the lift trap had been set for him, but Ondine fell

into it - literally - before Karla had a chance to send Jack into it.”

“I’m not so sure that Dorian is all that keen to link up with Karla any

more - if he ever was,” Lorinda objected. “Now that he’s had a chance

to, um, see more of Karla, in action as it were.

“He’s gone off the boil!” Freddie said. “Not that I could ever imagine

Dorian on the boil. If he lived on the other side of the house, the way

I do, he’d be sending Karla down the lift shaft.”

“And that’s another possibility,” Macho said. Roscoe sat up in his lap

and gave a prodigious yawn. “By the way’ - that reminded Lorinda - “I

hope you’re prepared to find another bottle of tequila when you go

back.”

“Yes.” Macho stroked Roscoe’s throat. “I thought of that. He couldn’t

get out on his own. Someone let him out. If only you could talk, eh, old

boy?”

Had-I decided to talk. She bounced off Lorinda’s lap and launched into a

short tirade to the effect that heroic cats who had fearlessly battled

and seen off marauding canine invaders were entitled to some reward. And

pretty quickly, thank you.

But-Known dropped to her side and agreed. Roscoe brightened and looked

around hopefully. He’d done his share, too.

“Yes… yes.” Lorinda led the way to the kitchen. “You’ve been very

good. Very brave. Very clever.”

The others followed her. Roscoe, still in Macho’s arms, was half

singing, half purring encouragement. He stopped only to yawn again.

Macho yawned with him.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day,” Macho apologized. “Very long. I think

it’s time we went home.”

“Let’s sleep on it,” Freddie agreed, “and meet for elevenses in the

morning.”

“Come round to my place.” Macho stifled another yawn, while Roscoe

uninhibitedly gave way to his.

“Have this for Roscoe.” Lorinda gave him a salmon-and-trout from the

diminishing pile of gourmet cat food. “I think it’s his favourite.” She

peeled the top off chicken-and-game for Had-I and But-Known.

“See you not too early in the morning then,” Freddie agreed, opening the

back door.

Suddenly, capriciously, Had-I decided that freedom was even more

enticing than gourmet cat food. She darted between Freddie’s feet,

nearly knocking her down, and bolted into the night.

“Oh, no!” Lorinda slammed the door just before But-Known could follow.

“No, you don’t!” Freddie helpfully caught up But-Known. “You don’t

really want to go out. Stay here and eat.”

“Now I’ll have to unfasten the catflap so that Had-I can get back in,”

Lorinda said resignedly. “And But-Known can get out. I was planning to

leave it shut tonight, so I knew where they were.”

“You can’t win,” Freddie said cheerfully. “Not with cats.”

13

Macho took his responsibilities as a host seriously. He had been out

early to the bakery and jam doughnuts, cherry muffins and Danish

pastries were set out on the table. Macho filled the cream jug and

placed it beside them, then looked around vaguely, still holding the

cream jug.

“Roscoe’s not back yet,” he muttered. “Mine have been gone all morning,”

Lorinda said. “I know. Roscoe went out with me and I saw him link up

with your girls. They went off together up the hill.”

Freddie helped herself to a Danish and munched on it moodily. Lorinda

noticed that there were dark circles under her eyes, but supposed she

didn’t look too well herself. She had spent a lot of half-wakeful hours

agonizing over what she might have done to incur Dorian’s enmity. She

could think of nothing. Nor could she imagine what Freddie and Macho

might have done. Presumably, they had done their own soul-searching

during the dark hours, they didn’t look as though they had done any

sleeping.

“Have you seen the facade at Coffers Court this morning?” Macho filled

their cups and sat down.

“I’ve been working,” Freddie said.

Lorinda shook her head, hoping it would be assumed that she had been

working, too. In fact, she was once again unable to bring herself to go

into her study. She had pottered around, promising herself that she

would get some work done in the afternoon.

“It’s a mess.” Macho spoke with some relish. “Gordie hasn’t cleaned it

up properly at all, he’s just smeared the black paint into a great big

blot. You can still read the graffiti and the bas-relief lettering is

filthy, even the letters that hadn’t been scribbled over before. Dorian

will be furious.”

“Oh, good.” Freddie cheered up a bit. “Anything that annoys Dorian is

going to get my support. I must stroll past and admire it later.”

“Gordie will probably be up there doing more cleaning by then,” Macho

said. “It’s my guess he only did that much last night with Dorian

standing over him. As soon as Dorian left, he packed it in for the night

and I, for one, don’t blame him.” “But Dorian will,” Lorinda said. “Poor

Gordie, he didn’t know what he was getting into. It must have seemed

like such a good job offer at the time.”

“Gordie and Betty both,” Freddie said. “Although I’m happy

to see that she’s showing signs of rebellion.” “Have another muffin,”

Macho urged hospitably. “I haven’t finished this one yet,” Lorinda said.

“But I will have some more coffee. No, don’t get up. I’ll get it myself.

Anyone else?”

“Well, while you’re up…” Freddie held out her cup. “Oh…” Something

in the distance caught Lorinda’s eye as she passed the window. “Here

come the cats now.

“Just in time for food,” Freddie noted. “You can always trust the little

blighters for that.”

“They … they seem to have something in their mouths.” Lorinda strained

her eyes to see what they were carrying. Had-I was in the lead,

something pale and gossamer fluttering from both sides of her mouth. “It

looks as though they’ve been catching butterflies.”

“Butterflies? At this time of the year?” Lorinda heard the scrape of

chairs being pushed back from the table, then Freddie and Macho were

behind her.

“They’ve got something, all right - and probably something they

shouldn’t have.” Macho went to the back door and opened it. “What have

you got there, you little wretches?” Roscoe bounded forward. It was his

house and his human in the doorway. He carried the biggest butterfly of

all in his mouth. Only … Freddie was right: it wasn’t a butterfly.

“No…” Lorinda whispered faintly. “Please … no. “Put it down,

Roscoe.” Macho’s voice shook. “Let Daddy see what you have there.”

Had-I and But-Known brushed past Roscoe, rushing to Lorinda with

high-pitched little sing-song cries of triumph. They laid their trophies

at her feet.

“Oh, no!” She covered her eyes. “Tell me it isn’t true!” “Sorry,”

Freddie said. “I’d like to be able to tell you they’ve raided the

fishmonger’s stall, but I’d be lying. The last time I saw fish like

that, they were swimming around the aquarium in Dorian’s study.” “We’re

in trouble,” Macho said bleakly. “You sure are,” Freddie agreed

cheerfully. “We might be able to save them!” Lorinda stoppered the sink

and ran cold water into it. She scooped up the tiny bodies - over

Had-I’s indignant protests - and tossed them into the water, where they

floated inert.

“It’s worth a try.” Macho tossed in Roscoe’s prize. For a moment, the

wide graceful fins seemed to flutter and swoop … then it flipped over,

belly up, and they realized it had been an illusion created by the

ripples of the water. “They’re goners, I’m afraid.” Macho absently wiped

his hands on the nearby dish towel.

“They felt … strange.” Lorinda looked around for something

to dry her own hands on, then wincingly accepted the dish towel. “I

don’t think they’re … fresh kills.”

“How can you tell?” Freddie peered into the sink curiously. “Do fish get

rigor mortis?”

“I’ve never had occasion to research that,” Macho said with dignity.

“Fish have never figured in a Macho Magee story. However, in Venice,

with all that water…” He joined her at the sink. ……. they do look

a bit odd.”

“I’ll tell you what else is odd.” Freddie had picked up But-Known and

was cuddling her. “The cats’ paws aren’t wet. Not the way they would be

if they’d been dipping them in the tank trying to scoop out the fish.”

“You’re right.” Macho bent and checked Roscoe’s dry forelegs. “Then how

did they get hold of those fish?”

“I can’t imagine how they got near them in the first place,” Lorinda

said. “It can only have been over Dorian’s dead bod-“

They looked at each other, dropped the cats and charged for the door.

By the fourth time they had rung the bell, they had got their breath

back after the dash up the hill. They rang again; still no one answered.

They tried the door, but it was locked. They stepped back and surveyed

the front of the house: the windows were all closed.

“No,” Freddie said. “I never believed in all those locked-room

mysteries. The cats got in and out. Let’s try around back.”

The French windows leading from the drawing room to the terrace were

ajar just about the width of a cat’s body.

“There we are!” But, having been proved right, Freddie became oddly

hesitant. She approached the window frame and rapped on it gingerly.

“Dorian -?”she called. “Dorian? Are you there?”

There was silence inside. They looked at each other uneasily. “If we

were the police,” Macho pointed out, “we’d be quite justified in

investigating. It isn’t as though we’re breaking in. The windows are

open and the circumstances are suspicious. The law is on our side.”

“I’m not worried about the law,” Freddie said. “I just don’t want to

confront Dorian in his dressing gown asking us what the hell we think

we’re doing trooping through his house.”

“He said he was going up to London today,” Lorinda remembered belatedly.

“He may have caught an early train.”

“That’s right.” Freddie’s sigh of relief was audible. “So, the house is

empty, the French window is open - and your cats have been helping

themselves in the fish tank. Every reason in the world to check up on

things. What are we waiting for? Let’s go in and see what the damage

is.” “Perhaps we can replace the missing fish before Dorian returns.”

Macho saw a ray of hope. “Unless they ate a few others before they

brought any home. I couldn’t tell which ones are gone, though, could

you?”

“Dorian?” Not dignifying that with an answer, Freddie advanced into the

drawing room, still calling out - just in case. “Yoo-hoo… Dorian…

anyone home?”

The drawing room was silent and empty, looking like a stage set waiting

for the actors to appear. On the far side of the room, the door to

Dorian’s study was ajar - again, just enough to allow an enterprising

cat to go in and out. “Dorian -?” Freddie crossed the room and rapped on

the door. “Are you in there…?” Silence. Lorinda and Macho came up

behind her and waited.

“Oh, well,” Freddie said. “In for a penny, in for a pound.” She pushed

the door open and they started in.

Lorinda had the sudden unnerving sensation of stepping into

a quagmire. The carpet gave way strangely under her foot and it had an

odd spongy texture. She looked down to see tiny bubbles of water well up

around her shoe.

“This carpet is soaking wet!” Macho discovered indignantly. “I can’t see

a thing.” Freddie reached for the light switch on the wall, but Macho

caught her hand.

“Don’t touch an electric switch when you’re standing in water!”

“Thanks, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll open the curtains instead.” Freddie

started across the room. “Uuggh! I’ve stepped on something!”

That was enough to discourage Lorinda from venturing further without

light. She and Macho hovered just inside the doorway.

“There!” Freddie swept back the curtains and daylight flooded the room.

They could now see the extent of the devastation. “Oh, my God!”

The carpet was littered with tiny dead fish, sprayed out across

it from the gaping jagged hole in the side of the glass tank. A few

remaining fish - tiny Neons - darted about hysterically in the few

inches of water at the bottom of the aquarium, dodging in and out around

the glittering shards of glass that loomed like icebergs in their midst.

“Well…” Macho broke the stunned silence. “He can’t blame the cats for

that!”

“It must have happened hours ago.” Lorinda began to recover. “Perhaps

during the night. The carpet couldn’t have got so saturated in any

shorter space of time.” She became aware that a steady trickle of water

was still dribbling from the tank, emanating from the little device

Dorian had installed to keep fresh water circulating for the fish. There

was another faint background sound … she looked around for the source.

“Oh, God!” Freddie found it first. She stared at the other side

of the room where Dorian’s big desk skewed across a corner, where he

could sit, back to the wall, commanding the room. He was slumped in his

desk chair now, watching them through half-closed eyes.

“Dorian! We didn’t realize you were here.” No, that didn’t sound right.

Lorinda corrected hastily, “I mean, we thought you’d caught the early

train to London -” No, that was worse. “I mean - “Frightfully sorry, old

boy,” Macho apologized. “We wouldn’t have dreamed of intruding had we

known you were still

“Gug…” Dorian said faintly. He seemed to be trying to rise. …. . …

. ….. .” He pitched forward, face down on the desk.

It was then that they could see the dark red smear congealing on the

back of his head.

It was hours before they were able to return to their homes. First they

had to wait for the ambulance and the police, carefully restraining

themselves from touching anything except for Freddie, who wiped the

squashed fish off the sole of her shoe and threw it into the

wastebasket. (Something which required explanation when a policeman

looked into the wastebasket and thought he had discovered a clue.)

Darkness had fallen on Brimful Coffers by the time they returned. They

had followed the ambulance in Freddie’s car, waited at the hospital

while Dorian underwent emergency surgery, notified his sister when he

was safely settled in intensive care, snatched a meal they had neither

tasted nor noticed, and now looked without favour at the dark empty

shells of their respective homes.

“All I want is to collapse.” Freddie halted the car and rested her head

on the steering wheel for a moment. “I want to fall into bed and sleep

for a week.”

“You do remember that you promised-” Macho began. “I promised to meet

Dorian’s sister at the train station in the morning and drive her to the

hospital,” Freddie said. “I know. Me and my big mouth.”

“You’ll feel stronger in the morning,” Lorinda encouraged, opening the

car door. Collapse suddenly sounded like the best idea she had ever

heard. She felt so exhausted she wondered if she’d have the energy to

change into her nightgown. “Don’t bet on it.” Freddie pulled her keys

from the ignition and opened her own door, shuddering as she looked at

the encroaching mist. “At least we got home before the worst of the fog

sets in. It’s going to be a filthy night.”

“I hope Dorian lasts through it.” Lorinda stepped out of the car and a

movement beyond the mist drew her attention.

“He’s pretty tough,” Macho said. “And the doctor was what I’d call

cautiously optimistic. But it was lucky for him we found him when we

did.”

“Thieving cats have their uses,” Freddie said dryly. “If they hadn’t

filched those fish … and speaking of devils

Three little forms bounded towards them, scolding. “Oh, darlings, have

we gone away and left you all day?” Guiltily, Lorinda stooped and

gathered up her two. There was always dry cat food left out for them to

nibble, but they expected more than that in the course of a long day.

“Here, Roscoe. Come here, boy. What’s the matter with you?” Each time

Macho bent to pick up his cat, Roscoe evaded him, backing just out of

reach, then returning when Macho straightened up. He was uttering

plaintive little cries.

“That’s odd,” Macho said. “He usually only behaves this way when I’m

going to take him to the vet.”

“Why aren’t you in the nice warm house?” Lorinda asked Had-I and

But-Known. She ruffled their fur and frowned. “They’re wet and cold.

They didn’t just run out to meet us they must have been outside for some

time.”

“Roscoe’s wet, too.” Macho finally captured his skittish friend. “He

hates being wet or cold. Why isn’t he inside?”

“You know’ - Freddie closed her car door silently - “I think I’m going

to revise my scenario. Suddenly, collapse doesn’t seem like a very good

plan. Not until we know what’s going on around here. When

comfort-loving, spoiled-rotten little creatures like yours take to the

great outdoors on a night like this, there’s got to be something nasty

in the woodshed … or in the house.” They looked at the dark silent

houses awaiting them. “Roscoe?” Macho sniffed sharply, lowered his nose

to Roscoe’s head and sniffed again. “Roscoe reeks of liquor.” He looked

thoughtfully at his own house. “Probably tequila.”

“I’m not going to sleep tonight,” Freddie said, “until all our houses

have been searched top to bottom.

“We’ll have to search them ourselves,” Lorinda said. “I’m not keen on

the thought of what the police might say if we call them in for

something as vague as this. I’m afraid they have a fairly low opinion of

us already.”

“In the best old tradition,” Macho said.

“And I wouldn’t like to tell them that story about us being haunted by

our own characters, either,” Freddie said. “Here, let me take one of the

cats, you can’t manage them both.” She took But-Known into her own arms.

“No, a story like that would be a one-way ticket to Colney Hatch.”

“Which is undoubtedly what was intended - and why we tried to hide what

was happening to us.” Macho stared at the unresponsive facade of his

cottage. “At best, people would think we’re harmless lunatics; at worst,

they’d suspect we’re so disturbed that we’re behind all the death and

destruction in Brimful Coffers.”

“Someone is.” Lorinda knew there could be no doubt about that now.

“Yes - and our best suspects are dead. Or dying.” Macho was grim. “I

think we can consider Dorian exonerated … the hard way. And

Plantagenet has been dead for weeks.”

“Again in the best tradition.” Freddie shivered. “Look, I’d rather be

doing something other than standing here catching pneumonia. Suppose we

start with Macho’s house and see if there’s anything … or anyone …

to find.”

Roscoe twisted uneasily in Macho’s arms and mewled distress

as they entered the house. Macho snapped on the front hall light.

Nothing happened.

“Of course, the bulb was there when I moved in,” Macho said.

“I suppose it could have burned out naturally.” “Mmmm-hmmmm… Lorinda

said. Freddie snorted.

There was nothing wrong with the living room lamp … or the room,

either. Roscoe renewed his struggles as they headed for the kitchen.

Macho walked more warily.

The kitchen light responded to the click of the switch, flooding the

kitchen with a harsh bright glare. Too harsh and too bright. They

glanced upwards instinctively.

The frosted globe that diffused the light had been shattered, only a few

jagged remnants still curved out from the fixture. The rest of the globe

lay in a trail of shards across the floor, ending at the far wall where

a broken tequila bottle lay in a reeking puddle.

On the kitchen table, another tequila bottle, two-thirds empty, stood

beside a glass with an inch of liquid still remaining in it. The chair

lay on the floor, as though it had been pushed back so roughly it had

tipped over.

“Ah, yes.” Macho took it in quietly. “A very pretty picture. Macho

Magee, drunk as usual, hurls bottle at the light, possibly because pink

elephants are lurking behind it, tips over chair and, presumably,

staggers upstairs to bed. Through the pitch-black hallway.” Macho

crossed to a cupboard and took down a small flashlight.

“Shall we go upstairs and see what was waiting for him?” They didn’t

need to go upstairs. As Macho swept the beam

of light up the staircase, something glimmered at the top that shouldn’t

have been there.

“Ah, yes.” Macho swung the light back to illuminate it. “Very neat.” A

transparent nylon cord stretched taut at ankle level across the top

step.

“So drunken Macho stumbles at the top of the stairs and pitches

backwards down them and, if the fall doesn’t kill him, doubtless someone

will be along to finish the job and remove the cord. Another tequila

bottle will be found clutched in his hand, its contents liberally

sprayed over and around him, as much as possible poured down his throat

if he’s in any condition to do any swallowing “Don’t!” Freddie choked.

“There’s a certain symmetry about it you have to admire,” Macho said

dispassionately. “An echo of the Plantagenet Sutton demise, as another

drunk falls - literally - prey to the bottle. And note the similarity of

the violence of broken glass and spilled liquids in Dorian’s study and

Macho’s kitchen. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few clues surfaced to

point to Macho, in one of his uncontrollable rages, as the killer.”

“Dorian isn’t dead yet,” Lorinda pointed out. “He’s got a fighting

chance, thanks to our finding him when we did.”

“Ah, yes. Someone’s plans are going wildly awry - and all because the

cats interfered in their own little way. No one could have foreseen

that.” Macho started forward.

“No, please!” Lorinda pulled him back, nearly dropping Had-I

as she did so. “Don’t go up there. You don’t know what else might be

booby-trapped. Let’s wait until morning.”

“Morning?” Freddie looked at her with a strange expression. “And how do

we get through the night? I don’t fancy being in my house alone - and

you shouldn’t, either. I think we ought to stick together for the rest

of the night.” “That’s not a bad idea,” Lorinda said. “Since I’m the

only one with enough rooms, that makes it my place. I suggest you be my

guests.”

“It’s a bloody great idea,” Macho said. “You’re on!” He started for the

door.

“Don’t you want to collect your pyjamas or anything?” “No, you’re right

- this is no time to go upstairs. Anyway, who’s going to sleep?” Macho

gave a lopsided grin. “You two can, but I’m doing guard duty.”

“I’ll just borrow something from you,” Freddie said. “I’m not going near

my place. I saw those next-door curtains twitch. The jackals are ready

to pounce the instant I show up.

They saw the fog had closed in with deadly intent as they crossed the

lawns between the houses. Another hour or so and it would be so thick

someone could get lost crossing that short distance.

Lorinda held her breath for a moment, but her hall light went on without

a blink. Everything looked the way she had left it.

Only the cats gave the game away. Had-I’s ears pricked, But-Known

twisted uneasily in Freddie’s arms. Roscoe gave a menacing growl.

“”Steady, the Light Brigade”,” Macho said, stepping in front

of the women. As one, the cats tensed and leaped from their arms to the

floor. Roscoe was not the only one growling now.

“Who’s there?” Lorinda called.

Silence. Deadly silence? They could not be sure. The cats might be

reacting to something that had already happened. A trap already set and

waiting to be sprung, while the murderer was somewhere else …

establishing an alibi.

The lamps in the living room responded instantly when Lorinda flicked

the wall switch. The room was empty… it appeared safe.

“In here…” She led the way. The cats brought up the rear, twitching

and uneasy. They all looked around carefully.

Freddie peered behind every piece of furniture and even, with

an apologetic grimace, under them. Lorinda looked behind the drapes,

then drew them closed. If the menace were lurking outside, it was better

not to give him a clear view.

Or her, she thought suddenly, unnervingly. Lily could be as dangerous as

any man. Once there, the thought would not go away.

“Would you like a drink?” Lorinda tried to pretend it was the usual

social gathering.

“Only from an unopened bottle,” Macho growled, bringing her back to

reality.

“Shouldn’t we search the house before we relax?” Freddie asked.

They looked at each other. Beyond the pools of comforting light thrown

out by the lamps, the rest of the house loomed large and dark.

“Oh, well, perhaps not.” Freddie threw herself down on the sofa.

“Personally, I’m quite happy to spend the rest of the night right here.

Who needs a bed?”

“Quite right.” Macho wandered over to the fireplace and picked up the

poker, weighing it thoughtfully.

“The only unopened bottle is Scotch,” Lorinda said. “Is that all right?”

She began to break the seal.

“Grrrrrr…” All the hairs rose on Roscoe’s back. “Sssss… haaaaah!”

Had-I spat, her suddenly bushy tail lashing. But-Known’s eyes seemed to

grow to an enormous size as she stared at the doorway.

The cats were all watching the doorway and the shadows in the hall

beyond it.

Lorinda took a tighter grip on the neck of the bottle. Freddie slid off

the sofa, clutching a pillow defensively in front of her.

“You’d better come in,” Macho said loudly. “We know you’re out there!”

After a long hesitation, a female figure glided into view. She was

wearing a long grey chiffon dress that seemed to float around her.

“Don’t move,” she whispered huskily. She was levelling an evil-looking

black gun at them. She had red hair.

“Wraith!” Freddie gasped. “Wraith O’Reilly.” “Marigold…” Lorinda said

faintly.

“I think not.” Macho had taken a colder more dispassionate look at the

figure, had seen past the wig and noted the bulge of the ever-present

hammer at the waist beneath the flowing chiffon, the hammer that had

already smashed a fish tank - and a skull.

“Gordie,” Macho said. ……. … . … . Gordie. Dorian tried

to tell us. “Very clever. No - don’t move!” Incongruously, even though

he had been recognized, Gordie kept to the husky pseudo-female whisper.

“Put down that poker.”

“Make up your mind,” Macho said. “Do you want me not to move? Or do you

want me to put down the poker?”

“Put it down! Slowly! … The bottle, too.” The gun moved to aim at

Lorinda.

He was mad, of course. And he hated them. All of them. Even

if they obeyed his every instruction, what chance did they have of

surviving? Slowly, Lorinda set the bottle down on the table. Out of the

corner of her eye, she saw Macho replacing the poker.

“Sit down!” The gun moved to indicate the sofa. “All of you. Together.

Where -” He broke off, on guard as they moved towards the sofa.

Where I can keep an eye on you … Where you’ll make a better target…

The unspoken endings to his sentence hung in the air.

Lorinda and Freddie sat on the sofa. Macho tried to perch on the arm.

“Down!” He didn’t get away with it. The gun gestured imperiously. “On

the cushions with the women.

But, having got them where he wanted them, Gordie didn’t seem to know

what he wanted to do with them.

“There are too many of you,” he complained fretfully, brushing back a

red lock. “What are you all doing here? Why aren’t you in your own

houses?” “We were invited here,” Freddie responded. “Which is more than

you can say.”

“That’s right! You never invited me anywhere! Any of you!”

It had been the wrong thing to say. It fuelled his grievance. “I was

nothing but good old Gordie. I could repair your typewriters, mend your

fuses, fix your plumbing - but I wasn’t good enough to mix with

socially.”

“Oh, God! I’ve set him off.” Freddie shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Macho patted her hand absently. “Dorian’s,

perhaps … all those unrealistic promises…”

“Dorian!” Gordie snarled, his voice roughened. “Dorian - the Great I-Am!

I hope he rots in hell!”

“Well,” Macho said mildly. “You did your best to send him there. I think

I can understand … up to a point. What I don’t understand is why…”

“Why us?” Freddie cut in. “What did we ever do to you? All right, so we

hadn’t invited you anywhere. But it’s early days yet. We haven’t lived

here all that long ourselves. We’re still settling in. You might have

given us a bit more time -

The gun swung to point at her forehead, silencing her. “I can write

better than any of you!” He waited but, with the gun pointed in their

direction, no one was going to give him an argument. “I could write

Wraith O’Reilly!” He pointed the gun at Freddie, then moved it on to

Macho. “I could write Macho Magee!” He aimed at Lorinda. “And I can

write Miss Petunia!”

“You certainly can,” Lorinda agreed. “I couldn’t be sure I hadn’t done

those chapters myself.”

“Yes, they were good, weren’t they?” He preened. “Wait till you see the

suicide note I’ve written for you. Only … you won’t see it. No one

will now.” His eyes shifted, as though he were listening to an inner

voice.

“I can’t do it that way now. You’re all together.” His voice took on a

note of complaint. “You’ve ruined my plans.”

“That just about breaks my heart,” Freddie said. “It will have to be a

double murder and suicide.” Gordie looked

at them assessingly and nodded. “That will do.” Lorinda felt soft fur

brush her ankles from beneath the sofa where the cats had wisely

retreated. It added to the unreality of the situation. How could this

man be standing in front of them with a gun, calmly planning to kill

them? And how long had he been planning it? He might be complaining now

that they hadn’t invited him into their lives, but that could not be the

only reason. It was four months ago that he had taken her typewriter to

do a minor repair and kept it longer than she had expected. He must have

written the Miss Petunia chapters then. And the suicide note, too? They

could have taken him to their bosoms and it wouldn’t have made any

difference, this had been cold-bloodedly plotted a long time before. But

why? She remembered the argument for her death that had been voiced by

his version of Miss Petunia. “You cannot seriously imagine,” Lorinda

said incredulously, “that if you kill us, you’ll be asked to take over

writing our series?”

“Why not? I’m a good writer. I’ve just never been given a chance. Now

I’ll be right here on the spot when your publishers come down to sift

through your literary estates and find out if you’ve left anything fit

for publication. I’ll be able to talk to them … show them examples of

my work in your styles … Oh, I have no doubt we’ll come to a

satisfactory arrangement, all right.” He smiled into the future. “You

won’t be able to write all three series,” Freddie objected. “Our styles

are all too different. And it would be a back-breaking schedule.”

“Oh, I expect I’ll be able to take my choice,” he said casually. “And

you needn’t talk to me about back-breaking. Anyone working for Dorian

knows all about that.”

Yes, the last straw must have been when Dorian insisted that Gordie

ought to work all night to clean up the graffiti. If it hadn’t had such

nightmare consequences, Lorinda might almost have felt some sympathy.

“But why kill Ondine?” Macho asked. “She didn’t have any series

characters. Her gimmick was her Un-titles.”

“Rotten, arrogant bitch!” Gordie spat. “She insulted me … treated me

like dirt. She was unbearable, uncivil, unkind, uncharitable,

unforgivable … and so -” he gave them a chilling smile - “she was

undone.”

Poor Ondine. Plunging down those attic stairs in a fury, bumping into

Gordie, venting her wrath on him - and paying for it horribly. Lorinda

shuddered.

“And Gemma had that odd, nearly fatal bout of food poisoning…” Freddie

was following her own trail of thought.

“She rejected my short stories,” Gordie snarled. “They were better than

anything appearing in her miserable magazine, but she kept rejecting

them. I didn’t use enough poison,” he brooded. “I didn’t want it to be

obvious and I undermeasured. She survived. Still’ - he brightened - “she

has nothing to do with the magazine any more. She doesn’t matter.”

“Plantagenet Sutton was pretty unbearable, too,” Macho said

thoughtfully. “If that’s part of the criteria. Or did he criticize one

of your unpublished manuscripts? The way he criticized, that would do

it.”

“I thought he was my friend.” Gordie’s eyes misted. “He was the only one

who ever asked me in for a drink and talked to me about writing. He was

going to help me get started. He got the case of tequila for me, he

thought the idea was really funny. Upsetting all you people, using your

own characters against you, destabilizing you… He wanted to see what

effect it would have on your books.”

“Yes,” Macho said. “Plantagenet would think it was a howling great joke.

I knew he was in it somewhere.

“Only… he lost his sense of humour.” Gordie’s eyes clouded. “He said I

could have killed Jack, pushing him into that bonfire. He didn’t

understand…”

“I suppose Jack had insulted you, too,” Freddie sighed. “What

a sensitive little flower you are.” “Sutton said I was going too far …

getting too dangerous,” Gordie complained. “He was going to tell Dorian,

but not until he got back from the cruise. I followed him up to the

Manor House that night - I knew he’d drink too much. And, if he didn’t,

he could always be persuaded to have another. He was glad to see me when

he rolled out of Dorian’s. He thought I’d help him home. He didn’t

notice that I kept him in the cold, talking. When he did, I offered him

a flask. It only took a couple of swallows before he passed out. Then I

lowered him to the ground and walked away. Nature did the rest. It’s

lucky it was such a cold night.”

There was bemused silence at his idea of luck. “It keeps coming back to

Dorian,” Lorinda reflected. “He found you, brought you here, installed

you as Jack of all Trades and resident caretaker at Coffers Court…”

Gordie, who could deal with anything mechanical or electrical - even to

the extent of rigging false messages on an answering machine and then

wiping them.

“I thought I was going to be his protege,” Gordie said. “But he only

wanted a carpenter-mechanic who’d be on twenty-four-hour call.”

“Have you got that mess over the doorway cleaned up yet?” Macho had

evidently decided to try to rattle Gordie. For a moment, he even sounded

like Dorian.

“Yes. No. It’s good enough.” Gordie looked at him with active hate.

“Dorian isn’t going to care any more.

“I don’t see why Dorian cared so much in the first place,” Lorinda said.

“That’s right,” Freddie agreed. “Why was he so concerned? What was it to

him?”

“You don’t know?” Gordie was gratified at being able to tell them.

“Dorian owns … owned … Coffers Court. He bought it as an investment

at the same time he bought the Manor House. He also bought a controlling

interest in the estate agent’s. He had his fingers in every pie in

Brimful Coffers.”

“Estate agent’s! So that’s why Dorian had the keys when he showed me the

house,” Lorinda remembered. “I thought he was just being very

thoughtful. But he had a personal interest and…” She caught the smug

expression crossing Gordie’s face. “You have those duplicate keys now -

that’s how you got in here. How you got in everywhere.”

“Who’d bother about good old Gordie roaming around doing his odd jobs?

Not that anyone ever saw me going in and out. I made certain of that.”

“In your usual efficient way,” Freddie jibed. “That’s enough!” He swung

the gun from one to the other of them. “I know what you’re doing. You’re

humouring me - playing for time. I’ve read this scene often enough in

your books. But you could keep me talking all night and it wouldn’t help

you. No one’s coming to save you. You know everything now and-“

“Just how do you propose to explain why three reasonably happy and

successful people should wind up in this ridiculous murder-and-suicide

situation you’re trying to set up?” Macho still had traces of Dorian’s

cold disdain in his speech.

“Happens all the time,” Gordie said. “The Eternal Triangle …

a crime passionnel Macho’s guffaw cut him off. After a moment, Freddie

joined

in the scornful laughter. “You’ll never get away with that,” Macho said.

“It wouldn’t stand up for ten minutes. If that’s the best you can do, no

wonder you never sold a book.”

“No, please -” Lorinda saw what he was doing. He was trying

to draw Gordie’s fire, hoping it would give them a chance to escape.

“Please, Lance-

“Lance?” That threw Gordie into more confusion than Macho’s needling.

“My name is Lancelot Dalrymple.” He met Gordie’s eyes coldly.

“If you weren’t so stupid, you’d know that no one could be named Macho

Magee.

“Don’t call me stu-“

The doorbell rang suddenly. The cats dashed for the door, knocking

Gordie off-balance. His finger tightened on the trigger and the first

shot went wild.

“Hey!” Fists began hammering on the door. “What’s going on

in there? Open up!” Freddie threw a cushion at the gun and another shot

went wide. Lorinda threw a cushion from the other side. Macho dived for

the poker. There was a crash of breaking glass.

“Hey!” Jack Jackley thrust aside the drapes and stumbled into the room.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Grab him!” Macho shouted, as Gordie tried to run for the window. He

lashed out with the poker, knocking the gun from Gordie’s hand.

“Got him!” Jack and Macho wrestled Gordie to the floor and sat on him.

The doorbell pealed again.

“Would somebody like to let Karla in,” Jack said, “and tell us what the

hell is going on?”

14

CHAPTeR TWENTY

“Oooohh, champagne!” Marigold gasped in excitement at the display in the

centre of the tea table. “And caviar! In Daddy’s silver ice bucket! Oh,

Petunia, have we got another case? Is it a special case?” “We’ve got the

rest of the case of champagne,” Lily said. “I saw it when I was putting

my bicycle on the back porch. Gift from a grateful client, was it?”

“No.” Miss Petunia drew a deep breath. “I bought it myself.” “Petunia!”

Marigold said reproachfully. “And you’re the one who’s always lecturing

me about our budget!”

“We have no budget any more, my dears,” Miss Petunia said. “We’ll never

have to pinch a penny again. We’re rich!”

“Petunia! Whatever can you mean?”

“Great-great-grandpa’s South Sea Bubble shares come good

at last have they?” Lily frowned in thought. “Or was it the Groundnut

Scheme?”

“My dears.” Miss Petunia beamed upon her sisters. “I am delighted to be

able to tell you that the Blossom Cottage Syndicate has won the

Lottery!”

“The Lottery, eh?” Lily took it calmly. “I thought some of those numbers

sounded familiar the other night.”

“Did they?” Marigold wrinkled her brow. “Oh, dear, I just have no head

for figures at all.”

“I didn’t want to draw your attention to it until I was absolutely

certain, but now I have had confirmation.” Miss Petunia adjusted her

pince-nez and took a deep breath. There were still moments when she felt

slightly giddy. “There is no doubt about it. We have won ten million

pounds!” “Ten?” Marigold’s eyes grew huge. “Ten million oooh…” “Catch

her, Lily,” Miss Petunia said.

After Marigold revived, they opened the champagne and began making

plans.

“Won’t have to move, will we?” Lily asked anxiously. “Rather like the

old cottage. Used to it.”

“Oh, no!” Marigold cried. “I couldn’t bear to live anywhere else!”

“No, no,” Miss Petunia reassured them. she had been giving the matter

some thought. “Of course we’ll stay here. We might, however, add on to

it a bit. Or buy some of the vacant land behind the cottage and build a

studio for Marigold to paint in and a gymnasium for you, Lily.”

“Oh, and a lovely laboratory for you, Petunia!” Marigold’s eyes glowed.

“Just what you need to help you solve the awful crimes we stumble over.”

“Are we going to keep on solving crimes now?” Lily asked. “We won’t need

to, you know. Not if we’re rich. Are we going to retire?” “It would be

rather nice not to have to go to Saints Etheldreda and Dowsabel every

day,” Marigold said wistfully.

“Mmmm, yes, but I’d rather miss the old place. Wouldn’t like

to break all the ties.” Lily brightened. “Perhaps we could cut down to

two or three days a week.”

“I’m sure you can do better than that,” Miss Petunia said. “When they

hear about our stroke of luck, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they

allowed you to take early retirement and then invited you to serve on

the Board of Governors.

“Oh, what fun! We could give out the prizes at Prize Day!” Marigold

clapped her hands. “Oh - and we could even donate some of the prizes!”

“Steady on, old girl,” Lily said. “Don’t want to go too far. Must say,

though, can’t wait to see Old Gumboots’s face when she hears the news.

“We can make all these decisions later,” Miss Petunia said. “Before

that, I think we should give ourselves a glorious holiday. What would

you say to a round-the-world cruise?”

“Oh, yes! Yes!” Marigold began dancing around the room in

her excitement.

“What a wonderful idea!” Her eyes grew dreamy. “Just think of those

tropical nights, with all those handsome ship’s officers, and a full

moon, and a romantic port, and…”

“Have to keep a sharp eye out for fortune hunters now.” Lily gave her

sisters a sharp look.

“I’m aware of that, dear,” Miss Petunia said. “You needn’t worry, we

won’t let anything separate us.

“What about staterooms? Only take two people, don’t they?” “We shall

reserve the penthouse suite … with its own balcony.” Miss Petunia gave

a happy sigh. “Expense is no longer a consideration. We’ll have a

wonderful time.”

“They have a gym on board, haven’t they? And deck games … tours of the

engine room … the bridge…” Lily began to get enthusiastic.

“Shopping on shore excursions,” Marigold said. “And we won’t have to

worry about how much things cost. Then there’ll be cocktails with the

Captain. Oh! - and we might even sit at his table.”

“With ten million pounds, I should think we might.” Miss Petunia

bestowed a fond smile on her sisters. It would be a very pleasant trip.

There would be a library on board, guest lecturers, the latest films,

craft courses, talks for hobbyists…

Yes, and who knew? There might even be a mystery or two

to solve. Many people travelled … and for many different reasons. It

was not beyond the realm of possibility.

“Fill the glasses again, Lily, dear,” Miss Petunia said. “And we will

drink a toast to the future. This isn’t the end of our little

adventures. It is -

the beginning

Lorinda pulled the page from the typewriter and looked over her

shoulder. Nothing moved in the shadows of the room as she snapped on her

desk lamp. The only sound in the study was Had-I’s contented purr from

the corner of the desk where she lay curled. But-Known sat at her feet,

looking hopeful. The finality with which Lorinda had torn the page from

the machine had told her that the day’s stint was over and food was

imminent.

“Just wait a minute,” Lorinda told her. “I just want to do one more

thing before I go out…”

Freddie was giving a Farewell Party for the Jackleys, who were leaving

for the Continent in the morning. It would be a small party, comprising

of those who were left. Rhylla had already taken Clarice and departed

for the States, considering a trip to Disneyland a small price to pay

for the relief of delivering Clarice back to her reluctant parents.

Dorian would not be there, either; his sister had taken him home with

her to complete his convalescence. Somehow, in relating this to Karla,

Freddie had made it sound as though Dorian would never fully recover and

would require nursing for the rest of his life.

It was amazing how quickly Karla’s ardour had cooled. It seemed like

only the next day that she and Jack had decided that they ought to visit

the mainland of Europe, since they were so close to it - and it would

make for a better travel book than a rather parochial story of a year in

a sleepy English village. Later, perhaps, they might make more of their

stay in Brimful Coffers but, with Gordie likely to be judged unfit to

plead, the excitement and publicity surrounding the recent events was

already dying down.

Lorinda looked over her shoulder again. Nothing. She listened, but heard

only Had-I’s purr. It was silly of her, of course - it had all been

Gordie’s doing. The Spinster Sibling Sleuths would not return to wreak

vengeance on her - now or ever. But it was better to be …….

After a long pause, she rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the

typewriter and began.

CHAPTER ONE

The sun sparkled in a bright blue sky and a spanking new carriage waited

outside the front door. It was a splendid morning for a new enterprise.

All was in readiness and the woman smiled to herself as she fitted the

newly engraved cards into her card case. In her mind was the list of the

houses where she would call to leave her card. Someone in each house

would have good reason to be interested.

A sweet and thrilling excitement rose in her, sweeping away the doubts

to which she had been prey. Alas for the ingratitude of humankind; she

had been snatched back from the depths, she had been lifted to a

position of respectability and honour and … Bah! she had been bored.

If all went well from this day onwards, however, she need never know

tedium again. She gazed fondly at the black copper-plate engraving on

the top card before she closed the lid of her card case. It read:

Becky Sharpe Discreet Enquiries Undertaken

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTeR TWENTY

CHAPTER ONE