The Empty House (22 page)

The faithful Savoia did not fail him. One touch on the starter and the engine sprang to life. Roll down the short slope, out through the gate, swing right, and away. He thought he heard a shout behind him, but he ignored it. As soon as he was around the first corner, he switched on all the lights and put on speed.

It was only when he turned into the main road between Cryde and Cryde Bay that he realised how tired he was. His eyes were playing tricks. The section of road immediately beyond his headlights started to tilt. The illusion was so convincing that he changed gear to tackle a hill which disappeared when he came to it.

Better not drive too fast. Only two miles to go. Then he could go to bed and go to sleep.

This started a second train of thought.
Had he ever waked up?
Might the events of the last fantastic hours be no more than a dream, orchestrated by the storm? The sort of dream which aped realism by mixing the frightening with the fantastic: Mr. Quarles and his sister at Minehead, and Anna talking on the telephone; Captain Andy apprehensive that he might be elected a town councillor, and the body of the young man Ramon on the ground with his neck broken. Had Peter really stumbled through the rain and sat beside Kevin and watched him die? Were those solemn Israeli killers merely the creatures of his overblown imagination? These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air. The cloudcapped towers, the gorgeous palaces. Watch it, for God’s sake, keep your stupid eyes open.

And the soldiers? What was it the Colonel had said? A game of chess. They make a move, we make a move. He had certainly moved in force. How had he managed to time his move so well? It was a small mystery among greater mysteries.

Here was Cryde Bay at last. Park the car. Climb out. Shut the door. Fumbling for the keys to lock the car, he dropped them. It was an effort to pick them up. The moon was growing pale, defeated by the growing light of the morning. Peter remembered that they had left the back door unlocked when they went out. It was still unlocked. He crept upstairs through the silent house, managed to get most of his clothes off, and fell into bed and into a bottomless pit of sleep.

It was afternoon when Peter opened his eyes. Captain Andy was standing beside the bed.

He said, “It’s gone half past two. I thought I’d better give you a nudge. I’ve brought you a cup of tea.”

“Thanks awfully,” said Peter. He propped himself on one elbow, conscious that he was still wearing his shirt and that there was, among other marks, a long, dark stain down the front of it.

“I didn’t hear you come in last night.”

“I’m afraid I was very late. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“I’m a sound sleeper,” said the Captain. “What I was wondering about was what’s happened to those two friends of yours. They seem to have decamped.”

The events of the previous night, blurred by sleep, came back to Peter with such brutal force that he jerked upright in bed, spilling some of the tea out of the cup.

“Better let me take charge of that,” said the Captain.

“Look,” said Peter, as soon as he felt able to speak. “I brought them here. I didn’t know a lot about them. In fact, I only met them a day or two ago. I feel entirely responsible. Let me know what bill they’ve run up and I’ll pay it.”

“Do I gather from that that we shan’t be seeing them again?”

Peter nearly choked, and said, “I don’t think we will.”

Now that he was sitting up, the stain on his shirt was glaringly obvious.

“It’s blood, isn’t it?” said the Captain. “Yours or someone else’s?”

“Not mine,” said Peter. “Kevin’s. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“Is he, now?” said the Captain calmly. “Then I think you’d better tell me about it.” He sat down on the end of the bed. “I’m generally reckoned to be discreet.”

“All right,” said Peter. “Some of it isn’t my story. I shall have to skip those bits. But I can tell you the main part of it. You may have read in the papers about Dr. Wolfe going over Rackthorn Point in his car.”

“Certainly I read about it, and talked about it. Everyone seemed to think there was some sort of story behind it, but they didn’t quite know what.”

“It’s the story behind it that I’m going to try to give you,” said Peter.

The Captain was a good listener. At the end he said, “So I’ve been entertaining two killers.”

“I don’t think they were professional killers. I remember reading about the way the Israeli assassination squads work. They’re divided into sections. There’s an advance party, who make a reconnaissance and keep an eye on things. They usually pose as husband and wife or brother and sister or something like that. Then there’s a communication party. They keep contact with the reconnaissance party and call up the actual killers at the right moment.”

“Businesslike people, the Israelis. So Kevin and Anna were the advance party. A pity about Kevin. Do you think Anna is dead, too?”

“I don’t know,” said Peter miserably. “But I’m sure I shall never see her again.”

The Captain said nothing immediately. There was a strength in him which Peter had sensed before. He fancied it must come from the roving life the Captain had led, and Peter was conscious of the reluctant envy which the young sometimes feel for older and more integrated people. When the Captain spoke, his mind had reverted to a different point. He said, “So you were actually in the house on the night poor old Westall was killed.”

“I was indeed. And I got out seconds ahead of the police.”

“I suppose you realise that you must have been there within minutes of the killing. According to the papers, it was an elderly couple in the next house down the Chine who heard the shots. They have a telephone beside their bed and rang through to the police at once. They reckon they got there in less than five minutes.”

“Then I wonder I didn’t hear the shots, too.”

The Captain looked at him and said, “Yes. That is a bit odd. Maybe it’s because you were up top and the sound was masked by the Chine. I think I better get you some breakfast. It’s not the conventional hour for it, but you’ll feel more able to face the world with something inside you.”

When Peter had washed away most of the evidence of the night before, had put on a new shirt and finished dressing, he did feel ready to tackle a belated breakfast. While he ate it, he gave further thought to his own future.

Was there anything to prevent him from packing up and going back to London? It would be leaving a job half done, but it was now a job which could only be finished by professionals.

Thinking about his job reminded him that he had still neither finished nor posted his report. It was four o’clock. With any luck he would find Arthur Troyte at his desk.

Mr. Troyte seemed only mildly surprised to hear from his errant employee. He said, “I didn’t expect miracles, Peter. You’ve only been at it a few days. Give it to the end of the week, and if you haven’t got any hard information by then, come back to base.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve got quite a lot of information.”

“Which way is it looking?”

“I don’t think Dr. Wolfe is dead.”

This produced a short silence. Then Mr. Troyte, sounding like someone who has been presented with a large and unexpected sum of money, said, “Well—”

“Two days ago I was sure he was still alive. In fact, I thought I knew where he was hanging out. I was wrong about that, but it doesn’t mean I was wrong altogether.”

“If there’s the slightest chance that you’re right,” said Mr. Troyte earnestly, “you can stay down there just as long as you like.” He paused to think about it. “If it was a put-up job, it’ll mean criminal proceedings against Wolfe.”

“I realise that.”

“Do you think his sister was in it with him?”

“I should think it most unlikely.”

“Can I tell the underwriters about this?”

“For goodness’ sake,” said Peter, “don’t say anything to anyone until you hear from me again. I’ll ring you, or write, next Monday at the latest. Then we can make up our minds.” He hung up.

Sam Phelps had been listening in on an extension line. He said, “I’m not sure we were right to send that young man down. It should have been someone older. Someone with a bit more ballast. He’s probably dramatising the whole thing. You know what young people are like.”

“Could be,” said Arthur Troyte. “But I don’t think so. He’s got his head screwed on all right, that boy. He won’t get himself or us into any trouble. You’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Sam Phelps. “Because I can smell trouble coming.”

It was after six o’clock when Captain Andy, who had gone out to do the shopping, came back with a basket of provisions and a serious look on his face.

He said, “I’ve been talking to an old friend of mine. Chap called Rayner. He runs the Esplanade. That big hotel on the front. I expect you saw it?”

Peter nodded, He knew from the Captain’s manner that something else unpleasant was in the offing.

“The local bobby called on him this morning and asked to look through his register. He wanted to know who the current lot of guests were. He seemed particularly interested in the ones who had arrived in the last few days. Most of Rayner’s people are regulars – old ladies, and mums and dads with young families. He wasn’t interested in them. What he was looking for was a young man travelling solo.”

“Did he say why?”

“Yes. When he’d satisfied himself that no one remotely resembling the man he was looking for was staying at the Esplanade, he accepted a quick half-pint in Rayner’s office – off duty, they’re old friends – and told him what the form was. There’s an old character who runs a taxi and spends most of his time outside the station.”

“I’ve seen him. He’s always fast asleep.”

“That’s the impression he gives. But he sleeps with one eye open. He’s a sort of unofficial police spy. I don’t mean they pay him. He probably does it for sheer love of nosey-parkering. There
are
people like that.”

“What did he tell them?”

“He said he’d noticed a young man, an exceptionally tall young man, arriving by train about midday, Friday. He knew he wasn’t local, therefore he was a visitor. But an odd visitor, since he only seemed to have one very small bag with him. He didn’t look like a commercial traveller. So what was he up to? If you’d hired his taxi, he would at least have known where you were staying, and that would have satisfied his curiosity. As it was, you were just a suspicious question mark.”

“Nosey old bastard.”

“That wasn’t all. Later that day he noticed the same suspicious character prowling back along the path which leads from the Chine.”

“I was
not
prowling. I was walking.”

“He says you were prowling. He observed you carefully in the mirror of his cab. He says you were walking as if you wished to avoid attention. The upshot of it is that the police are making inquiries at every hotel and guesthouse in the town. It’ll take them some time, but they’ll get here in the end.”

“Yes,” said Peter, “I suppose they will.”

“Taking the view,” said the Captain, “that since I hadn’t opened for the season, you and those friends of yours could hardly be described as guests – more unofficial lodgers, really – I haven’t asked you to sign the register. If you were gone by the time they get here, I could say, without telling a lie, that you’d been staying here but I didn’t know your address.”

“Certainly not,” said Peter. “It’s good of you to suggest it, but I’m not going to get you into trouble. Besides, what about my car? It’s been parked in your yard since Saturday night. Are you going to tell them you didn’t even notice the number?”

“I could say that.”

“No,” said Peter. “Most certainly not.”

He took out one of his professional cards. “This is who I am, and that’s my business address. If the police want it, they can have it.”

“Once they’re after you,” said the Captain, “it’s not much use running away, I agree. Merely an idea. When you were telling me what happened last night, it sounded as if it was developing into a fair-sized battle.
Why wasn’t there anything about it on the news today?”

“Wasn’t there?”

“Not a whisper. Nothing at all, on the morning or the midday news. Ex- moor’s a fairly empty sort of place, I agree, but it’s not a desert. There are people about. If shooting started, on any sort of scale, they must have heard something and reported it. So why haven’t we heard about it?”

“Because it’s been suppressed.”

“Right. But since the police weren’t involved, doesn’t it look as though the Army have got the last word in this show?”

Peter said slowly, “I had a talking-to from a Colonel Hay. He certainly implied that the Army was involved. Not necessarily the regular Army. He didn’t say so, but I gathered that M15, or M16, or whatever the appropriate outfit might be, was involved.”

“Do you know where Colonel Hay hangs out?”

“All I know is that he said in his report that he was staying in a farmhouse nearby and actually saw Dr. Wolfe’s car driving up the path toward Rackthorn Point and heard it go over.”

The Captain got out a dog-eared sheet of the Ordinance Survey and they examined it together. The Captain said, “There’s only one place it can be. There. On the other side of the River Culme. Rackthorn Farm. Give me five minutes on the telephone and I’ll find out who it belongs to. Then we can locate their telephone number.”

“I expect we can,” agreed Peter. “And when we’ve done it, what then?”

“Then you ring up Colonel Hay and say you want to have a talk with him. I guess he won’t say no. Tell him the whole story. If anyone can square the police, I guess it’s him.”

The telephone was answered by a male voice which sounded young and cheerful. The voice took Peter’s name and invited him to hang on for a moment.

The moment became a minute, and the minute grew to nearly five minutes before Colonel Hay came on. He said, rather sharply, “Where are you speaking from, Mr. Manciple?”

“I’m at Cryde Bay.”

“A pity. I hoped you’d have taken my advice and gone home by now.”