“Then the inspector hasn’t talked to the ticketmaster or Isaac yet.”
“Who?”
“The man who drove Welch, and us, to the farm last night. As soon as Isaac or the ticketmaster tells Cole about that, he’ll be on the doorstep. I’m afraid we haven’t covered our tracks very well, Homer.”
“It makes no difference. Now that those men have disposed of Welch, I should think they’ll be leaving. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t gone already. It was damned risky, leaving Welch’s body so close to the house.”
“The inspector said it was well concealed. Our friends might have thought they’d have more time to get away.”
“All this palaver is getting us nowhere,” I said. “Any minute Cole will show up with a couple of plump constables. I doubt they’ll pose a challenge to Vasapoulis and Dudley. If we don’t want a trio of dead policemen, we’ve got to do something. There’s two of them and three of us. Are you armed, Homer?”
“Always.”
“Then into the house we go. French and I will enter through the window as we did last night. You give us ten minutes and then kick in the front door.”
I sat back, pleased with my plan. It was simple and direct and if an arms dealer and his henchman died in the firefight, who would care? I said as much, to be greeted with a chuckle from Homer and the familiar horrified silence from his nibs that comes whenever an idea is floated that doesn’t comport with his Etonian ideals. But it was imperative that we tackle Vasapoulis and Dudley before the police arrived and so French reluctantly agreed to the plan, though he spent several precious minutes tamping down my enthusiasm for gunplay and affirming the value of taking Vasapoulis alive so as to extract useful information. I let him finish his sermon uninterrupted. It was a great strain on me, but as time was wasting I refrained from squandering more of it by arguing with French. In the end I vowed to do my best to capture Vasapoulis rather than kill him and that seemed to satisfy the poncy bastard.
“I’d feel better about this if we had any idea where the men were sleeping,” French fretted.
“I’ve only seen lights in two rooms,” said Homer. “I think that Vasapoulis sleeps in the room at the front of the house, the one where he met with Welch. I believe Dudley sleeps in a room at the northwest corner of the house. I’ve noticed a light there the two nights I’ve been watching.”
“So there are French doors from the verandah into the room where Vasapoulis sleeps?” I asked. “Then don’t bother with the front door, Homer. Smash in the French doors. You’ll gain a few seconds and Vasapoulis will have less time to arm himself.”
“Quite right,” agreed Homer.
“As India and I are entering the rear of the house, we’ll head for Dudley’s room. Can you take Vasapoulis on your own?” French asked.
“Of course.” Homer sounded offended.
“I should have stopped by the prime minister’s office when we were in London,” said French. “It would be useful to have more men.”
“Well, you didn’t and that’s that,” I said. “The odds are in our favour. We have the numerical advantage and we have the element of surprise.”
“I shouldn’t count on surprise. These chaps live in a dangerous world and they’re always on the alert.”
As if to demonstrate the truth of his assertion, we heard the front door of the house open and a figure appeared.
“Dudley,” whispered Homer and the three of us dove to the ground. “He’ll have a look round the grounds and then go back inside.”
“This is a perfect opportunity,” I whispered. “If we can eliminate him, we’ll have a clear path to Vasapoulis. He’ll just assume that it is Dudley returning to the house when we enter, and we’ll catch the Greek off guard.”
“Excellent idea,” said French. “What’s Dudley’s route, Homer?”
“He’ll walk down the drive fifty feet or so, then check that the stable is secure and complete a circuit around the house until he’s at the front door again.”
Indeed, Dudley had already set off down the drive.
“I’ll take him now.” French eased his truncheon from his coat pocket. “The trees will provide cover and he won’t hear me coming through the pasture. If I wait until he returns to the house, he’ll hear my footsteps on the gravel.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Homer.
“It will be easier for one of us to get close to him than for two of us to try to hide our approach. I won’t be a minute.”
French slipped away into the dark and Homer occupied himself by slipping off his belt and flexing it gently, careful not to make a sound as he did so. “Have you anything else we can use to tie him? And we’ll need a gag.”
“You can keep your belt. French has a set of handcuffs and I’ve a scarf. That should work admirably.” I used the knife from my boot to cut off a portion of the scarf sufficient to fit inside Dudley’s mouth, then sliced the remainder into long strips that I wove together to hold the gag in place. Our preparations complete, we had nothing to do but wait.
Now I have every confidence in French, except when I don’t. I know he’s a soldier and has seen some action (not that he’d been the one to inform me of that, but I’d winkle the story out of him soon), and of course he’s one of Dizzy’s most trusted agents, so he must be competent at sneaking up on fellows and bashing them on the head. I’d have felt much better if I’d been allowed to go along, primarily because I suspect French would use the minimum force necessary to render Dudley unconscious while I would have ensured that Vasapoulis’s henchman didn’t wake up until next week, if at all. French likes to portray me as a savage, but one man’s savage is another man’s realist.
I was about to suggest to Homer that perhaps we should meander over and see how the ambush was developing when French loomed up out of the shadows with the inert figure of Dudley over his shoulder. He lowered the fellow carefully at our feet, straightened one of Dudley’s arms, which had been pinned beneath his body (I told you French was too bloody solicitous) and sat down with a grunt. Homer and I busied ourselves trussing Dudley like a Christmas goose.
French massaged his fist. “That fellow has a head like a blacksmith’s forge.”
“Did he give you any trouble?” asked Homer.
“Not a bit. I was on him before he knew it. He heard my footsteps just before I reached him and started to turn round, but I clipped him behind the ear and he toppled over and that was that.”
I could hear the satisfaction in French’s voice. Felling Dudley was small recompense for the beating French had received at the hands of Vasapoulis’s gang, but it must have felt fine to strike at least one blow in retaliation. I was looking forward to some of the same.
When Dudley was bound and we’d all had a swallow of brandy to fortify us for the assault on the house, we checked our weapons and made sure our extra cartridges were at hand. We’d held a quick debate while we prepared and decided that since Vasapoulis was now alone in the house, Homer would bash in the French doors of the room where we thought the Greek was sleeping, as planned, but now French would join him in this activity and I would cut off Vasapoulis’s retreat by guarding the back of the house. Frankly, I did not regard this as a suitable plan as it left me far from the action but as much as it pains me to admit this, I have neither the strength nor the experience to plant a boot on a door and break it open. I slithered off to circle behind the house. I proceeded cautiously, keeping an eye open for armed scoundrels, until I came to the stone drinking trough and crouched down behind it. From here I had a clear view of the rear entry to the house, and I’d have the drop on Vasapoulis if he managed to evade French and Homer and tried to escape.
I had just settled into position when I heard the ruckus begin. The sound of boots thudding against wood broke the silence as Homer and French struck at precisely the same moment. Glass shattered as the French door from the verandah gave way, and I heard the lock crack and wood splinter. The house seemed to quiver from the attack.
“Hands up!” Homer shouted. A revolver boomed and someone yelled. Footsteps thundered through the house and suddenly there was the crackle of sustained gunfire. Unless Vasapoulis had a Gatling gun in there, he was not alone. I raced for the back door, Bulldog in hand. I may not be able to open a door with a flying leap, but I could blast open the lock with my pistol.
This plan, however, proved unnecessary. I was twenty feet from the door when it sprang open and two men rushed out. I flung up the Bulldog, cocking the hammer as I did so. It was too dark to see clearly and these two could be Homer and French exiting a firefight they hadn’t anticipated, but it was better to have my weapon at the ready while we sorted that out.
“Halt!” I cried. I sounded dashed calm under the circumstances.
One of the men skidded to a stop, shocked into compliance. The other swung deliberately in my direction and raised his hand. I assumed he had a weapon in it and I hit the ground, rolling frantically through the gravel in the vain hope of finding shelter somewhere in this exposed courtyard. The fellow pulled the trigger and the gun in his hand barked. The gravel where I’d been standing a moment before exploded and I ducked my head to shield my face. I yelped as a quantity of gravel pellets slammed into my body. It hurt like blazes, as if I’d been stung by a dozen wasps or hit by a load of buckshot. By God, if that chap had damaged my goods, I’d make him pay. I propped myself up on my elbows and took aim. In the moonlight I could see his pale face turning this way and that as he searched for me. He’d been blinded by his own muzzle blast and his night vision had not returned. I suffered from no such impairment. I squeezed the trigger.
I hit him well. His body jerked backward from the force of the bullet and his arms flailed. The revolver in his hand went flying, and then he collapsed. I turned my gun in the direction of the second fellow, but now my vision was obscured by the flash from my Bulldog’s muzzle and I couldn’t locate the man. I blinked and scrambled to my knees. The chap I’d shot was keening softly, clutching his stomach. Of the other, there was no sign. I held the Bulldog at chest level and swept the courtyard. Either the second man had gone back inside the house or he’d hared off into the night. I sincerely hoped he’d chosen the latter course. Otherwise he might be inside waiting for me or, even worse, about to take a potshot at me from one of the windows. I dropped to a crouch and scuttled to the side of the house, where I leaned against the brick and took stock of my situation. My wounds were slight and not especially painful, though I could feel blood trickling down my legs where the gravel had struck me. But I was still on my feet and I needed to get inside the house. From the front rooms I could hear an occasional gunshot and ragged shouts. I had no idea what I’d find when I got there, but I had to reach French. And Homer, of course.
I wasn’t about to enter the building without a bit of reconnaissance, though. I leaned well back out of sight and thrust one hand into the open doorway, waving it ostentatiously. Nothing happened. I took a deep breath and blew it out, then swung the Bulldog up and darted through the doorway, tucking my shoulder as I went through the opening and hitting the floor in a roll that brought me to my feet inside the room. An excellent maneuver and damned well executed, if I may say so myself.
The moment I regained my feet I brought up the Bulldog and lunged sideways. I hit the wall and hunkered down, my shoulders tensed, waiting for a blast of lead. Again, nothing. Either the second villain was a cool fellow and was laying a trap for me or he had run like a rabbit to join his friends in the house or through the fields away from the skirmish. Since he’d scampered off without offering even token resistance and left his compatriot bleeding to death in the courtyard, I reckoned he’d concluded that discretion was the better part of valour and was now headed into the distance at speed.
Nevertheless, I moved forward cautiously, peering quickly around door frames and then drawing back to avoid offering an easy target. It took some time to navigate through the dark house and I did it with my heart in my throat. The gunshots had subsided now and the house was eerily quiet. What the devil was happening? Where was French?
I reached the dining room that opened onto the entry hall and paused here to collect myself. I remembered that if I walked into the hall I’d be facing the side of the set of stairs that ran from the ground floor to the first, and that if I turned to the left I would see the dresser in the hall and beyond it, to the right, the room Vasapoulis occupied. There was also, I recalled, a room directly across from Vasapoulis’s. It had been closed off behind a set of double doors when French and I had slipped into the house, so I had no idea what purpose it served.
I was chewing my lip and wondering what in blazes I was going to do when I heard snatches of a whispered conversation. I inched forward with the Bulldog at the ready and ventured a peek into the hall. I drew back in alarm. A hulking figure was stooped down behind the great chest in the hall, not ten feet from me. I could clearly see his body outlined against the white sheet that covered the chest. That certainly wasn’t French, and though Homer was stocky, this lout looked like a gorilla compared to him.
I heard stealthy footsteps from overhead and risked another quick glance. The light was dim, but I could just make out a figure crouched at the top of the stairs. I couldn’t tell if the second figure was Vasapoulis, but it didn’t matter. A scheme was forming in my head. I was busy calculating distances and trajectories and which of the men out there should get the first bullet when a throaty voice with a distinct Mediterranean accent called out.
