Sky High (25 page)

It didn’t work quite as quickly as that. Some explanations had to be given; and Big Jim, despite his preoccupation, succeeded in doing justice to a substantial tea; but within twenty minutes his old Studebaker Saloon was headed north again. In the back, both completely silent now, the two boys sat with Sue. Tim was in the front seat, beside Jim, who drove with the deceptive careful carelessness of a man who spends his life behind a steering wheel.

The sun, which had shone bravely through the day, dipped at last into a bank of cloud along the western rim of the sky. Dusk slowly coloured the fields.

‘Put the clocks back soon,’ said Jim, breaking a long silence. Then we shan’t get no more of these evenings.’

He switched on his lights as they were running across Ditchley Common. Nobody spoke again until the car drew up outside the Artsides’ house.

‘Will I run Rupert home?’ said Jim.

‘No. He’s staying with us until Bob comes along,’ said Sue. ‘Liz was ‘phoning him when we left. I don’t know what she’s up to but we’d better do as she says. Hop out, Rupert,’

‘All right,’ said Rupert.

Maurice gave him a desperate look, which his ally ignored.

‘I’ll be going on then,’ said Jim, after a pause.

‘Bad business. Expect we shall see things better in the morning. You can come and sit up beside me, Morry. I’m not going to eat you.’

The car sighed off into the darkness.

A little, cold, wind had got up with the going down of the sun and Tim saw Sue shivering.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go in and light a fire and get a drink.’

They were half-way up the path when Rupert suddenly stopped.

‘Come on,’ said Tim.

‘Is there anyone in your house?’ said Rupert.

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Tim. ‘It’s Anna’s day off.’

‘What’s up?’ said Sue.

‘I thought you might be interested,’ said Rupert. ‘That’s all. There’s someone up in your top storey. I saw a flash just as we got to the gate, and another just now. It looks like an electric torch.’

Three pairs of eyes stared at the house, which remained blind and unresponsive.

‘Is this a try-on?’ said Tim. He had lowered his voice.

‘Try-on for what?’ said Rupert. ‘If I’d wanted to bunk I could have bunked ten times by now – only there’s nowhere to go to.’

He sounded so desolate that Sue restrained a mad impulse to put an arm round him.

‘My God, you’re right,’ said Tim suddenly. ‘There he goes. Well played, Rupert. If you hadn’t kept your eyes open we’d have walked right into it. You two – I think you’d better go back to the road and wait.’

‘Think again,’ said Sue.

‘All right, but if you come with me you’ve got to do what you’re told.’

His two assistants nodded dutifully.

They moved round to the back of the house. One of the French windows in the drawing-room could be opened from the outside if you knew the trick. No trick was necessary. When they got there the window was swinging on its hinges.

‘Got in this way, did he,’ said Tim. It started a new train of thought. ‘Must be a friend of the family. Now look here, you two. You stay here. You can leave the passage door open, so you can hear what’s going on, and ring up the police if I seem to be getting the worst of it.’

‘All right,’ said Sue.

‘And if any shooting starts, lie down.’

‘Ra-ther,’ said Rupert.

Tim started quietly up. The front stairs were solidly built and well carpeted, and he made very little noise. The house was almost dark, but not quite. As your eyes got used to it you could see a little.

As he passed the tenth stair, just before the bend, he felt something fragile snap as his leg hit it; then a slithering, then a horribly loud clatter.

He knew at once what had happened. The man upstairs had fastened a stout piece of thread across the tread and suspended something from it – probably a brass ashtray – to give him warning of anyone trying to creep up on him.

He’d got his warning all right. Tim took the rest of the stairs fast, scuttled inside the first door, and settled down to wait.

The light they had seen had been on the top storey, which was Anna’s room, the box room and the tank room. You got to it by a steep secondary staircase which was covered only by a thin drugget and had a most peculiar squeak. Tim was confident that no one, go he ever so carefully, could come down unheard.

Always supposing that he was not down already.

There could be no harm in waiting. In such blind and deadly games of hide and seek the man who waited longest usually came out best. On one such occasion—how long ago now?—in Salonika, he had sat waiting so, hour after patient hour, at the top of a ricketty flight of stairs until the old Greek below had got tired – or had persuaded himself that Tim was not there at all – and had lighted a cigarette, which was precisely the last thing he had done in his long and evil life.

If you waited long enough and sat still enough you usually heard something or saw something.

This time he heard it.

It was a tiny, but distinct, noise, somewhere right at the end of the passage.

Seemingly then, the man
had
made his way down the attic stairs whilst they were getting into the house. If so, he must have heard the ashtray drop. How long would it take him to persuade himself that it was the cat that had broken the thread?

Another tiny noise. His man was on the move.

Tim thought that he ought to shift himself. Where he stood, just inside the doorway of the bathroom, anyone coming past would see him, silhouetted against the grey of the window.

He edged out into the passage. Silence had dropped again, broken only by the bilious rumblings of the water tank.

The next door on the left was his mother’s bedroom.

He won’t be in there, thought Tim. The noise was further off than that. He’s either at the end of the passage, or inside one of the rooms up that end. Suppose I switch the light on and rush him. No. Can’t do that. He might have a gun. Better close up a bit.

He went on hands and knees along the thick carpet of the corridor. He was passing the bedroom door on his left when something stopped him.

Wait. It was gone. Try again. He had it.

It was a smell, faint but quite distinct; overriding the soapy, disinfectant smell from the bathroom and the scent and floor polish from his mother’s room.

Sharp, and unmistakeable. With a tang to it – something between sweat and metal polish. He remembered smelling it before, as he had stood with MacMorris two weeks ago, outside the door of the little attic, with the water tank gurgling and whistling inside.

The difference was that this time he recognised it. He had smelled it often enough in Greece and Palestine and Italy. It was the smell of fear. Quite close to him, crouched behind the door of the bedroom, was a man who was mortally afraid.

Tim’s own mouth was dry. A man who is afraid is a bad opponent.

No good stopping, thought Tim. He knows you’re here. But he doesn’t know, yet, that you know where he is. Move on, as if you were going past the door, then at the last moment—

Pivoting on his heel Tim hurled himself at the half-open door, in a shoulder charge. The door jarred on something soft and there was a protest of breath squeezed out of a body. Quickly Tim reversed, jerked the door open, and closed with his man.

He had him pinned into the corner behind the door. It was an awkward position for both of them. Whatever else you do, don’t let go of his right arm. Cramp him. Keep him in the corner, until you can work your hand down to his right wrist.

Tim felt the man contract. Then, in a wild flurry of effort they staggered into the room. It was difficult to keep any foothold on the polished linoleum. We’re going down in a minute. Must be on top after the fall.

Tim had forgotten the bed. As they went down they hit the back of it. The surprise shook them and both lost grip. The man tore himself free. No time for finesse. Tim dived after him.

He heard, more than saw, the knife blade, which said, ‘whish’ as it came through the air and ‘kreesh’ as it slit through the front thickness of his coat from lapel to pocket.

Then Tim was on top of him and they were both on the ground.

For a moment he thought he was winning, then he realised just how strong and clever his opponent was.

Unflurried by the fact that he was underneath, the man was manoeuvring, like a trained wrestler – hip – buttock – hip and in a minute he would be in position for that quick heave and roil which would reverse their positions and put Tim on the underside.

Tim put out every ounce of strength and weight he had. He heaved his body up, and came down, once, twice, three times, on the braced knees. With a sick feeling he realised that he was making no impression at all.

At that moment a lot happened at once.

The light came on; a young voice said something urgent; his opponent turned the upward thrust of his body into a sideways roil; there was a sharp crack near, but not on, Tim’s head, and a sound of splintering; and the right wrist that Tim had been gripping for dear life slackened, and slipped under them.

At first Tim thought it was his own blood which was jerking out, warm and urgent, over his hand and arm.

Then the mist cleared, and he was able to pick up the details.

In front of him he saw Sue, her face very white, and Rupert, his hair on end, the remains of a china statuette in his hand.

Then he looked down at the floor, straight into the eyes of Sergeant Gattie. They were clouded, but untroubled.

‘Quite a fight, Captain,’ he said. ‘Must have rolled on my own sticker.’

Tim knew enough not to move.

‘Telephone the doctor,’ he said to Sue. ‘Quick as you can.’ Sue fled.

‘It’s no go,’ said Gattie. Even in that short time he was perceptibly weaker. ‘And don’t you try and patch me up either,’ he added, with a flicker of spirit. ‘It’s better like this. Let it go.’

‘Keep quite still,’ said Tim.

What the devil was Sue doing?

‘I’d like you to know something,’ said Gattie at last.

‘Rest easy,’ said Tim. ‘Don’t talk. This is closing night. It’s all over now.’

Gattie tried to say something more. Something urgent. Alarm flared in his eyes.

‘What is it?’ said Tim.

It was one word. It sounded like nothing on earth.

The door opened and Sue burst in. ‘I can’t make anyone hear,’ she said, it’s the telephone. I don’t think it’s working.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Tim. He got up slowly. He was feeling terribly stiff, it’s too late now. Would have been too late anyway,’ he added, as he saw the look on her face.

‘Did I kill him?’ said Rupert.

‘No,’ said Tim. ‘You distracted his attention. He rolled on his own knife. Give me that bedspread, will you? I’d like to clean this up before mother gets back, but I expect the police ought to see him first.’

They went out, shut the door, and went down to the hall.

Tim jiggled the telephone. It sounded quite dead.

‘It’s no good,’ said Sue. ‘I tried.’

Tim pulled the instrument, and it came away in his hand. The flex had been cut under the telephone table.

There’s a call box at the corner,’ said Sue.

‘You stay here with Rupert,’ he said.

‘I say—’ said Rupert, urgently.

They looked at him.

‘You know Gattie was upstairs.’ They nodded. ‘What was he doing, fiddling round with that torch? Was he fixing to blow this house up too?’

‘Good God,’ said Tim. ‘I’d forgotten all about it.’ He paused for a moment. It seemed curiously difficult to think. Then he said, ‘You two go out into the garden – right down to the bottom. Now don’t argue. You won’t be any help in this. In fact, you’ll be in the way.’

‘Tim,’ said Sue, ‘You can’t—’

‘If we tackle it the right way,’ said Tim, ‘there’s no danger at all. I can’t explain now, but this isn’t the sort of explosive which goes up at a certain time. You have to do something to start it off. If there are three of us in the house, we’re three times as likely to do it.’

What doors had they opened, which must not now be shut? What lights had been turned on that must not be turned off? Or, if turned off, on no account turned on again.

Try to think.

‘Off you go,’ he said. ‘I can’t get started till you’re gone.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to wait for an expert—’

‘I know as much about explosives,’ said Tim patiently, ‘as anyone within thirty miles of Brimberley tonight. If you’re too obstinate to go yourself, you might think of Rupert.’

‘I’m not scared.’

‘Come on, Rupert,’ said Sue, ‘We’re embarrassing the gentleman. We’ll wait in the summer house till he whistles for us.’

‘But I don’t want—’

‘Look here,’ said Tim. ‘If you’re not gone by the time I count five, tired though I am, I’ll give you, here and now, the biggest walloping you’ve ever had in your life.’

‘If that’s how you feel about it,’ said Rupert, composedly, ‘I’ll go.’

Tim watched them off and then went slowly back through the French window. First he must have a torch. There was one in the kitchen, he thought. Safer not to turn any more lights on, though. He got out his cigarette lighter, eased round the half-open kitchen door and started to search. In the end he found it, hanging on a nail beside the plate rack.

He came out again into the hall and walked upstairs. His search must start in the attics. If Gattie had planted the explosive anywhere else, why should he go up to the attics at all?

And it was not as if he was looking for something you could hide away just anywhere. The explosive to destroy a solid house like this would be a bulky packet – quite as big as a large suitcase.

The door to the attic stairs presented a problem. It was shut. There was no way round that. They had no ladder long enough to reach the top storey windows.

Tim tried to consider the matter logically. It was, on the whole, unlikely that this particular door had been chosen, for the simple reason that there was no certainty that any of them would use it that night. In the end he opened it. Nothing untoward happened. He wedged it open.