10

Marlowe arrived at Bardon Bank shortly after seven o'clock on the following morning. It wasn't difficult to locate the scene of the accident. Half-way down the hill a police car and a couple of breakdown wagons were parked at the roadside. He pulled in behind them and switched off the engine.

As he climbed down from the cab, a young police constable approached him with a frown. 'Now then, chum, we don't want any sightseers.'

'The man who crashed was my boss,' Marlowe told him. 'I got a phone call last night telling me to get here as soon as possible.'

An expression of sympathy appeared on the policeman's face. 'Oh yes, your other driver's been here. A Jamaican called Mackenzie. You'll find him at the transport cafe down at the bottom of the hill.'

Marlowe nodded. 'Thanks. I'd like to have a look before I go, if you don't mind.'

The policeman shrugged. 'Please yourself, but I'm warning you - it isn't very pretty.'

They walked a little way down the road and came to a gaping hole in the wall. The bank fell steeply on the other side through a plantation of firs to a stream fifty or sixty feet below.

The path of the truck was quite plain, and at the end of the lane it had cleared through the fir trees, Marlowe could see the blackened and twisted wreckage of the truck.

He cleared his throat. 'It looks pretty bad.'

The policeman nodded. 'I've been down there, and believe me it is bad. The whole damned thing went up in flames when it hit the bottom.'

'What about the old man?' Marlowe said slowly.

The policeman shook his head. 'He's still in there, or what's left of him. They're burning their way through the wreckage now to get him out.'

For a moment longer Marlowe looked down at the wreck, and then he turned away. 'Thanks,' he said. 'I'll probably see you later.' He climbed back into the truck and drove down to the transport cafe.

He found Mac sprawled half across a table in one corner, fast asleep. When Marlowe touched him the Jamaican came awake instantly. A slight smile came to his face. 'Hugh! I'd just about given you up.'

Marlowe explained. 'Maria passed out on me when she heard the news. I had to get the doctor in. He gave her a sedative and put her to bed. She was in such a state that I couldn't leave her.'

'How is she now?' Mac asked.

Marlowe shook his head. 'All frozen up inside, poor kid. She's taking it pretty hard. She had a lousy night until I made a cup of tea and slipped a couple of the pills in without telling her. She went out like a light.'

The Jamaican went to the counter and got two cups of coffee. When he returned he said, 'Man, this is a bad business. Mr Magellan shouldn't have turned out on a night like that.'

Marlowe nodded. 'That's what Maria thinks. She blames me. Jenny O'Connor phoned and said she wanted to see me urgently. Maria wasn't too pleased when I went. She thinks I should have been at the farm to take your phone call and come out with the spare truck.'

Mac shook his head. 'But that isn't fair, Hugh. You couldn't have known that I was going to have a breakdown.'

Marlowe smiled bitterly. 'Don't give me that crud, Mac. Under the circumstances I should have hung around the farm last night, just in case anything went wrong. I didn't and the old man's dead. Whichever way we look at it, I'm at least partially responsible.'

He pushed a cigarette into his mouth. 'I wonder what caused the accident?'

Mac was tracing patterns on the table with one finger in a pool of spilled tea. 'I was wondering,' he began hesitatingly. 'You don't suppose anything was wrong with the truck, do you?'

Marlowe looked at him inquiringly. 'O'Connor? I don't think so. When was that truck checked last?'

'Yesterday morning,' Mac said. 'I did it myself. It was in good order.'

'That's it then,' Marlowe said. 'There was someone around the place all the time. I can't see how anyone could have tampered with it.'

'What do you think happened?' Mac asked.

Marlowe stared into space and sighed deeply. 'I think Papa Magellan was just a sick, tired, old man who should have been in his bed. He probably passed out at the wheel or perhaps he fell asleep. Whatever happened, it only took a minute.' He stood up. 'Yes, he was just a sick old man who depended on me, and when he needed me most I wasn't around.' He turned and walked rapidly out of the cafe as the impotent fury surged into his throat in a strangled sob.

It was almost noon when they managed to get what was left of the old man out of the truck. They brought him up the hill wrapped in a blanket, and Marlowe and the Jamaican stood and watched silently as the body was put into the ambulance. As the man in charge of the breakdown team scrambled up, Marlowe walked across to him and said, 'Did you find anything that indicated why he'd run off the road?'

The man shook his head. 'We aren't likely to, either. Not in that heap of scrap.'

Marlowe turned away, sick at heart, and motioned to Mac. 'Come on, let's get out of here,' he said. 'It stinks like a charnel house.'

But all the way back to Litton he was unable to get the stench of burnt flesh out of his nostrils. It stayed with him even when he opened the side windows and filled the cab with air. He told himself it was all in the mind, and took even greater risks, driving into the curves at a dangerous speed, his hands gripping the wheel until his knuckles showed white.

Mac sat quietly beside him, saying nothing. When they finally turned into the farmyard and halted outside the door, he said to Marlowe, 'What you need is a good stiff drink, man. Come on in and I'll get you one.'

Marlowe shook his head. 'No, not for me.'

'What about Maria?' the Jamaican asked. 'She'll need you at a time like this.'

'Need me?' Marlowe said. 'Why should she need me?'

Mac shook his head. 'Man, you must be blind. That girl loves you.'

Marlowe laughed savagely. 'Did love me, you mean. I'm the man who was responsible for her father's death, remember.' He turned abruptly and walked away across the yard to the barn.

He paused in the entrance to light a cigarette. It tasted like straw and he tossed it away with a curse. He walked forward into the barn, hands in pockets, head bowed down, and then he stiffened as his eyes lighted on something.

He dropped on one knee beside the pool of liquid and dipped a finger into it. He lifted the finger to his nostrils and sniffed deeply, and then he gently touched it to his lips. It was fluid from the hydraulic-braking system of the truck.

For a moment he stayed poised on one knee, paralysed and unable to fully comprehend the meaning of his discovery, and then he got to his feet, murder in his heart, and turned and walked out of the barn towards the truck.

It was all plain now. All very plain. The old man hadn't passed out at the wheel. He'd crashed through that wall because the truck had got out of control on the hill. It had got out of control because somebody had tampered with the brakes. It was as simple as that.

He scrambled behind the wheel of the truck and pulled the starter. The engine roared, drowning Mac's cry in the background, and Marlowe took the truck across the farmyard in a burst of speed and skidded out of the gate into the main road.

As he drove towards Barford he was conscious of one thing only. He was going to kill O'Connor. He was going to wrap his hands round that fat neck and squeeze all life out of the grotesque body. Anyone who got in his way would get stamped into the ground.

It started to rain and lightning forked across the sky. As he turned the truck into the square a clap of thunder tore the heavens apart and rain started to fall in a torrential sheet.

Marlowe braked to a halt in front of O'Connor's place and stepped from the cab on to the loading-platform. The rain buffeted him as he went towards the great sliding-doors. He pulled on them with all his strength, but they refused to yield. There was a small postern gate set slightly to one side, with a Yale lock. He tried the handle several times with no success. He pushed the rain away from his eyes and stood back a little. He took three quick paces forward and stamped his right foot hard against the little door. It burst open with a splintering crash as the lock yielded, and he stepped inside.

An eerie silence reigned except for the hard drumming of the rain against the windows. The warehouse was in half darkness, and he moved forward, senses alert for any sound. There was a slight click and the vast room was flooded with light. 'Who's there?' a voice called.

Marlowe raised his eyes. Blacky Monaghan was standing on the landing at the top of a long flight of wooden stairs. He had been sleeping, and he rubbed his eyes several times and blinked. After a while he seemed to get Marlowe into focus. 'What the hell do you want?' he shouted.

Marlowe approached the bottom of the stairs. 'I want O'Connor,' he said. 'I want O'Connor, and if you try to stop me getting to him I'll kill you.'

Something like fear flickered in the Irishman's eyes. 'You're wasting your time,' he said. 'He isn't here.'

Marlowe started to mount the stairs slowly, his eyes fastened unwinkingly on Monaghan. The Irishman licked his lips and stood back a little. 'I don't want any trouble with you, Marlowe,' he said. 'I've no quarrel with you.'

Marlowe smiled terribly. 'But I've got a quarrel with you, you bastard,' he said.

Stark terror showed in Monaghan's eyes, and his voice cracked like an old woman's. 'I tell you he isn't here,' he said. 'He's at the girl's place. It's the truth, I tell you.' He backed away along the landing as Marlowe neared the top of the stairs and screamed, 'Go on, get out of it. I've told you what you want to know.'

Marlowe shook his head and laughed tightly. 'I haven't finished with you yet,' he said. 'Not by a long way.'

An expression of utter desperation appeared on Monaghan's drink-sodden face. He looked around wildly. Hanging on the wall there was a fire extinguisher, a shovel, and a felling axe, all brightly painted in red. He grabbed at the axe and wrenched it from its fastenings on the wall. He turned to face Marlowe, gibbering with fear, the axe poised. 'Keep away from me,' he shrieked. 'I didn't kill the old man. It was the boss this time. You were supposed to go out in that truck.'

Marlowe stood rooted to the spot, staring at the Irishman, and then a terrible surging fury rushed through him and he sprang forward.

Monaghan swung desperately with the axe. If he'd taken his time and judged the distance he could have split Marlowe's skull on the spot, but blind panic took possession of him. Marlowe ducked and the axe whistled over his head and rang against the wall. One terrible, rending hand gripped Monaghan by the throat and the other relentlessly twisted the axe from his grasp.

Monaghan's face turned purple. With a strength born of panic he kicked forward desperately and caught Marlowe on his right shin. Marlowe grunted in pain and his grip slackened. The Irishman staggered back against the wood railing. As Marlowe came forward he struck out at him desperately. Marlowe took the punch on one shoulder, slammed his left into Monaghan's belly and lifted his knee as the Irishman started to bend.

As the terrible blow in the face sent him backwards, Monaghan bounced against the wooden rail. There was a splintering crash as it gave way and he disappeared below with a single cry.

Marlowe moved forward to the edge of the landing and looked down. He gave a sudden roar of rage. Monaghan had fallen no more than ten or twelve feet on to a great mound of potato sacks. As Marlowe watched, the Irishman rolled to the bottom, lurched to his feet and staggered towards the splintered door through which Marlowe had entered the building. He paused once at the door to glance fearfully over his shoulder, and then he disappeared.

Marlowe jumped down on to the pile of potato sacks, lost his balance, and tumbled to the bottom. He picked himself up and ran across the floor to the door. As he emerged from the warehouse, an engine coughed into life and a small yellow van moved across the square and vanished up a side street.

He pulled himself up behind the wheel and turned the truck towards the street that led to Jenny O'Connor's flat. He was praying that Monaghan had not been lying and that he would find O'Connor there. The quality of the fury which possessed him was such that he was conscious of only one burning thought. He was going to kill O'Connor.

Now he had the definite, final proof from Monaghan's own lips. O'Connor had planned his death, but the plan had misfired and Papa Magellan had died instead. It was fitting that O'Connor should make full and final reparation.

He parked the truck and ran through the rain into the little court. He leaned against the bell, pressing with all his force without stopping, so that the sound of it filled the entire house.

The door opened and Jenny stood before him. He brushed her aside and moved towards the lounge. As he came into the room, O'Connor rose from a seat by the fire, alarm on his face.

Jenny came hurriedly into the room behind him. 'For God's sake, what is it, Hugh?' she demanded. 'What's happened?'

Marlowe kept his eyes fixed on O'Connor. 'Papa Magellan's dead,' he said.

A curious expression appeared on O'Connor's face, and he took out a handkerchief and held it to his lips. Jenny gave a shocked gasp. 'Oh, no, Hugh! Not that poor old man. How did it happen?'

Marlowe nodded towards O'Connor. 'Ask him,' he said. 'He'll tell you. He knows all about it.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' O'Connor said.

'You bloody swine,' Marlowe said deliberately. 'I've just dealt with Monaghan and he told me what happened. You got him to fix the brakes of one of the trucks. You expected me to go out in it, but unfortunately the old man took the truck out instead.' He laughed savagely. 'Would you be interested to know how he died? I'll tell you. He went through a wall, sixty feet down into a ravine. Then he fried. Have you ever smelt burning human flesh, O'Connor? I have. It's something you never forget.'

O'Connor seemed to be choking into his handkerchief. He took it away from his lips and gasped, 'I didn't have anything to do with it.'

Marlowe started to move towards him. 'I'm going to kill you, O'Connor,' he said. 'I'm going to kill you with my bare hands.'

The fat man dipped his left hand into his pocket. When it came out he was holding an automatic pistol. 'Keep away from me,' he said. He seemed to choke and his face was, beginning to turn purple. 'You're going to listen to me, you damned fool.'

As Marlowe paused, O'Connor gurgled horribly and fell backwards into his chair, the pistol slipping from his nerveless hands. Marlowe moved forward and grabbed him by the shirt front. 'You bastard,' he said. 'You needn't think you can trick me this way.'

O'Connor's lips were blue and a line of foam appeared on his mouth. His eyes rolled and he managed to focus them on Marlowe with difficulty. A half-smile appeared on his face and he said faintly, 'You damned fool. You've got to . . .' His eyes swivelled upwards and his head fell limply to one side.

Jenny O'Connor pushed past him as Marlowe stood up, and dropped on her knees beside her uncle. She placed her ear to his chest and listened for several seconds. When she got up there was an expression that was almost triumph on her face. 'He's dead,' she said. 'I knew that heart of his wouldn't last much longer.'

All at once Marlowe felt completely deflated. He stumbled to the cocktail cabinet and splashed brandy into a glass. He poured it down his throat in one clean gulp, and coughed as the liquor burned its way into his stomach.

There was a mirror hanging on the wall and he looked at his reflection and felt apart from it as if it was someone he did not know - had never known. A hand slipped over his shoulder and a warm body was pressed against him. 'This is it, darling,' Jenny said. 'This is what I was talking about. You and me together. We could have everything we wanted.'

He turned, brushing her away as one might a fly, and looked at O'Connor lolling horribly in the chair. 'My God,' he croaked, 'you don't even bother to bury your dead, do you?'

She stared at him, frozen-faced, and he turned and lurched through the door, leaving her there with her dead uncle in her lovely room, surrounded by beautiful things.

It was an appalling drive back to Litton. The rain was falling so heavily that visibility was reduced to ten or fifteen yards and the windscreen-wipers were almost useless.

The cobbles in the farmyard were flooded with rain, and when he jumped down from the truck the water mounted over his shoes, chilling him to the bone. He stood in the hall and peeled off his wet jacket, and then he was conscious of the utter quiet. He stood quite still, his face lifted a little, nostrils moving slightly like some animal that scents danger.

'Mac!' he called. 'Where are you?' His voice echoed hollowly in the uncanny silence.

He mounted the stairs, two at a time, and turned along the landing. 'Mac!' he shouted, and threw open the door of their bedroom. He paused in the doorway, his jacket slipping from his fingers and gazed around him in bewilderment.

The room was a complete shambles. The bedding was scattered in every direction and the mattress had been slashed open exposing the horse-hair stuffing. Every drawer was pulled out and his personal belongings had been emptied on to the floor.

He turned quickly and went downstairs. The kitchen looked as it usually did, except that the fire was out in the old-fashioned grate. He stood in the doorway and his eyes moved slowly over everything.

A shudder ran through him and he moved forward and dropped on one knee beside the table. There was a pool of blood on the floor.

At that moment the telephone rang sharply, its harsh clamour shattering the silence. He ran along the corridor, fear gripping him by the vitals, and lurched into the sittingroom. He snatched up the receiver. 'Hallo, Marlowe here. Who is that?'

The line crackled a little and a voice that was vaguely familiar said, 'Hallo, Hugh, old man. So glad you've got back. This is the fifth time I've phoned during the past hour.'

Marlowe swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice steady. 'Who is that?' he said.

A gay laugh drifted along the line. 'Don't you recognize me, old man? Now really, I'm quite hurt. This is Faulkner speaking.'

Marlowe closed his eyes for a moment and his hand tightened convulsively over the phone. 'How the hell did you find me?'

'Never mind that, old man,' Faulkner told him. 'The point is, we've already visited your present residence and found you out. However, we did find a young lady and a coloured gentleman, and suggested they might like to keep us company for an hour or two.'

Marlowe moistened his lips. 'Get to the point, Faulkner. What do you want?'

'Oh, come now, old man. Don't let's be naive.'

'I found some blood on the kitchen floor,' Marlowe said. 'Who got hurt. It wasn't the girl, was it?'

Faulkner made an expression of distaste. 'No, it was your Jamaican pal. I'm afraid he didn't quite see eye to eye with us. Butcher had to persuade him a little. But don't worry. He's doing nicely.'

'And the girl?' Marlowe said.

'Oh, she's all right,' Faulkner assured him. 'At the moment, anyway. I'm given to understand you have quite an interest there, old man.'

'Who told you that?' Marlowe croaked.

'Never mind for the moment,' Faulkner said. 'For the young lady's sake I sincerely hope it's true. You'll find us at a place called Garvald Mill about four miles out of Litton. It's just off the Birmingham road. If you're not here within an hour with the twenty thousand, I'll turn the girl over to Harris. You know what he's like where young women are concerned.'

'Faulkner, wait a minute. Listen to me,' Marlowe shouted.

He was wasting his time. There was a slight click and the line went dead.