Castle Fear (9 page)

***

Joe Hardy sneezed.

The two old ladies dozing over their magazines snapped awake to glare at him. They didn't have far to frown. The small library was only a single room lined with light oak bookshelves.

"Dust," Joe apologized, pointing to the scatter of old papers and charts spread across the table in front of him. He smiled as charmingly as possible and went back to taking notes.

Karen Kirk was pretending to browse, moving around the bookshelves with her hands behind her back. She eased over to one of the bow windows in the small room, taking a careful glance out into the street.

Returning to Joe's side, she whispered, "How's the old research coming?"

"I've got just about everything we need."

Sitting, she moved her chair up next to his. Her voice was even softer as she whispered in his ear, "I think somebody is following us."

"You mean the little guy in the raincoat?"

She pulled back. "You noticed him already?"

"He was watching us outside the hotel, loitering around the restaurant, then tailed us here."

Karen was looking distinctly unhappy. "What are we going to do?"

Joe grinned. "How are you at fainting?"

"Beg pardon?"

He spelled it out for her. "Can you pretend to faint?"

"I suppose so, but Jillian's the actress, not me. Should I try it right here?"

"Save your acting juices," Joe told her with a grin. "Go out the front door of the library. Look excited, like you had to get someplace important in a hurry. Turn down that alley we saw, next to the butcher shop. Once you're sure the man in the raincoat is following you, faint and fall down when you're halfway down the alley."

Karen gave him a dubious look. "You realize that alley is going to be pretty dirty."

"Just do it, okay?"

"All right, but wallowing in garbage isn't my idea of fun."

"Look, you ruined that raincoat when we hit the dirt last night," Joe said, his face suddenly grim, "and wallowing in crud is a lot more fun than getting kidnapped or shot."

Joe quietly headed out the back door of the library. Moving in a slight crouch, he slipped behind the high hedge surrounding the small front lawn. From there, unobserved, he could watch the man in the tan raincoat.

He was beginning to suspect that he'd met the person tailing them before. This was the same guy who, disguised as a little old lady, had given him a quick flying lesson off the train last night.

The front door of the library swung open, and Karen, looking excited and upset, came hurrying out. She started walking rapidly toward the local police station, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. Her eyes stared straight ahead, as if she was intent on reaching there as soon as she possibly could.

The small man in the long, flapping raincoat hesitated, frowning across at the doorway of the library. Then, when he saw where Karen was heading, he tightened the belt of his coat and took off after her. Joe noticed that he stayed on the opposite side of the street, walking at a slower pace so he could keep an eye on Karen.

Joe waited.

As soon as Karen stepped into the alley, her shadow crossed to the other sidewalk and started after her.

***

At a few minutes past noon the silence of the Castle Fear dungeons was broken by footsteps. Inside the damp, gray cell Frank Hardy turned from staring at the slightly slimy stone wall in front of him. Jed Shannon was already standing by the door, where a key was rattling in the lock.

Limehouse, Nigel Hawkins's hulking thug, swung the door open with one hand. His other held a gun on them. "Let's go, boys," he ordered, gesturing with the pistol. "You're wanted upstairs."

"For what?" asked Jed.

"You're playing the wrong part, actor." The broken-nosed thug pointed to the stairway. "You got no lines to ask questions in this script."

Prodded by Limehouse, Jed and Frank climbed the stone steps. They marched along a paneled hallway on the ground floor of Castle Fear, then into a large, beam-ceilinged room. French doors let wan sunlight into the room, and even though it was summer, a fire crackled in the hearth on the far wall.

Jed stood in the doorway staring at the slender blond girl sitting at an enormous dining table. "Jillian!"

She was a very pretty young woman with shoulder-length blond hair, although just now her face was pale and there were shadows under her eyes. That gave her an even stronger resemblance to Emily Cornwall.

She stared as if she were seeing a ghost when Jed appeared. For a second the glow in Jillian's face made her look incredibly beautiful. Then it disappeared, like a light that had been abruptly shut off, as her face crumpled into tears. Jed dashed over to throw his arms around her. "Jillian!"

"Jed, I'm sorry about all this," Jillian sobbed as she nestled into his chest. "I was stupid to let Nigel fool me into coming down here."

"Jillian, I - " Jed began. Frank had never seen the young star's face look so tender - and he was convinced Jed wasn't calling on his acting ability.

"That's enough clinching for now," a brisk voice called out. Nigel Hawkins stood at the head of the table. "Please break it up and take your places."

"You're holding us prisoner, but you're serving us lunch?" Frank stared in disbelief at the elaborate place settings around the large oak table.

"Why ever not?" Hawkins seated himself. "You'll find that I'm quite a civilized fellow - when people don't annoy me. And dear Jillian can tell you that I'm extremely thoughtful. Jillian, sit at my right, if you would. Mr. Shannon is on your right, with Mr. Hardy opposite him. Limehouse, you'll keep an eye on our guests. And Rowland, you'll sit next to Mr. Hardy."

Another man came into the dining room. It was the same large, red-faced blond guy who'd pretended to be Ian Fisher-Stone, Jillian's agent. "Such a pleasure to see you again, Hardy," the man said. "How's the head?"

"Fine, now," Frank told him. "You're a regular artist with a blackjack." The man smiled, and Frank decided to try another question. "Where's the real Fisher-Stone?"

"In the south of France." Rowland sat down.

"By choice?"

"Oh, yes. He chose quite readily. All he needed was a little persuasion - and the wherewithal - and he was most delighted to leave London."

Hawkins slid his damask napkin out of its silver ring, snapped it to unfurl it, and draped it over his right knee. "Why use violence when a simple bribe will do?" he said to Frank. "Unfortunately, we were informed that you and your brother were above that sort of thing."

Rowland smiled. "That's why we resorted to scare tactics."

Frank took his seat. "Once this is all over, what do you intend to do?" he asked. "Shake hands all around and drive off into the sunset?"

Hawkins picked up a small silver bell and rang it once. "You have the foolish notion that we can't afford to leave any live witnesses behind to identify us. Is that it?"

"Seems obvious." Frank shrugged. "You've already done something to my brother."

"I most certainly have not," Hawkins told him haughtily. "Oh, we tried to spirit him off the train last night. But he eluded my man, apparently diving from the train on his own. I have no idea as to his present whereabouts."

"He also stole one of our cars," Rowland added. "Seems a resourceful young man."

Frank was relieved that Joe was alive and that he wasn't a prisoner someplace in the castle. That is, if Hawkins was telling the truth. "Okay, so what do you intend to do with us?" Frank asked.

"After Jillian has done her bit, you'll all be free to go," Hawkins assured him. "I take that back - actually, you'll be chained up in this frightful old castle. After we're safely out of the country, the authorities will be notified to come and claim you."

"But we can identify you, tell the police who stole the Talbot emeralds."

Hawkins laughed. "We're never returning to England, dear boy. You'd be surprised at how many countries are friendly to men of means. Warm countries where there's never a wisp of beastly fog or so much as a suggestion of a snowflake."

"You're giving up your show-business career, Hawkins?" asked Jed, who was sitting next to the young actress, holding her hand.

"You mean those wretched films I produced?" Hawkins laughed. "Let's face it, the emeralds will gross more than those movies."

An ancient servant came tottering into the dining room, carrying a large silver tureen of steaming soup. He began ladling it out into the soup plates, starting with Hawkins.

"People warned me," Jillian said to Jed, her eyes shining with tears. "But I kept on believing Mr. Hawkins was really making a big-budget film with me as the star. I studied Emily Cornwall's life, took photos wearing a black wig. I even made a sample videotape as Emily."

"She's quite a remarkable actress," Hawkins said as he tasted his soup. "If I planned to stay in the movie business, I truly believe I could make her into a major star."

"They're going to substitute me for Emily." Jillian lowered her head, not looking Jed in the eye. "I'm to go to the solicitors, pass myself off as her, and collect the jewels."

"That won't work," Jed objected. 'They won't turn the emeralds over to her."

Hawkins smiled. "Keep in mind, my boy, that no one has seen little Emily for years. She's been ill, living abroad as something of a hermit."

"What about fingerprints?" Jed objected.

"None exist. At least not anywhere her solicitors can get hold of them."

Jed said triumphantly, "Handwriting."

"They've made me practice her signature." Jillian rubbed her hand. "She broke some bones in an accident. If anyone asks about the writing, I'm supposed to use that as an excuse. Jed, once I realized what they really had in mind, I told them I wanted no part of it."

"That's why they kidnapped you, Jed," Frank broke in angrily. "For a little leverage."

Near the door, Limehouse cleared his throat, swinging his gun toward Jed. "Would be a shame if anything were to happen to him."

"It would certainly ruin a lot of careful planning," Hawkins said. "Machinery I put together after seeing Jillian in some dreadful play a few weeks ago - what was it?"

" 'Tis a Pity She Won't Be Woo'd," Frank said.

"Awful thing. But it introduced me to Ms. Jillian Seabright. I mean there I was, suffering; through that awful play that would have been better left buried in Britain's musty theatrical past. Then I realized this sweet young thing was a near double for Emily Cornwall. Of course, I knew about the emeralds, and that no one had seen Emily for many a moon."

"We keep extensive files," Rowland explained. "Dear Emily is only one of those people whose fortunes we - ah, monitor."

"Monitor, then steal," Frank said.

Hawkins waved a playful finger. "Robbing the rich is an old English sport, Hardy. Started by a chap named Robin Hood. It's much more fun than making second-rate cinema offerings, or - What is it, Walter?"

A lanky man came pushing into the dining room. "Might be trouble," he said gruffly.

The teasing smile vanished from Hawkins's face. "What, exactly?"

Walter said, "We've been trying to call the Forman woman. She's supposed to be sitting on the Cornwall girl, awaiting word from us."

"And?"

"Nobody's answering the phone there." A look of unease passed over the crook's face. "I don't like it. Something's gone wrong with the plan."