Queen Victoria's Revenge (11 page)

“What's to do?”

“Do nothing until we ask Angus. He won't be long—”

The sharp cracking sound of two pistol shots from behind the door came as punctuation to his sentence. Once more the knife thrower from the boat showed the speed of his reflexes for, as the others stood gaping, he jumped forward and hurled himself against the door. It creaked loudly—but held fast. As he struck it again a car started up in the road outside, tires spinning and squealing as it roared away. The door crashed open to reveal Angus Macpherson lying face down on the floor, beyond him the open front door.

In this still moment Tony struggled to get free. But the stolid Bruce was the perfect captor. He had been ordered to hold, and hold he did, gaping into the parlor and scarcely aware of Tony's writhing. They were bending over Angus now, looking up with shocked faces.

“He's dead, stone dead, Willy. What are we going to do?”

“Don't panic,” the sandy-haired man said, stroking his heavy glasses in thought. “Close the street door. Get the others in here. The money's gone, isn't it?”

“By God yes! He's killed poor Angus and taken it all.”

Willy looked up and saw Tony, then pointed a quick finger in his direction. “Get that one out of here for now. Lock him in the pantry.”

Muscled arms forced Tony across the room and through a low wooden door. It crashed shut behind him and he could hear a heavy bolt being slid into place. He was in a small room lined with shelves, mostly empty, and lit by a small barred window in the wall. The door was thick, he found that out when he pressed his ear to it; all he could hear was tantalizing murmurs of sound from the other room. All right, what about the window—if he was going to escape now was the time while the confusion was at its highest. When he stood on the shelves his shoulders were level with the window. It had no glass in it but was covered by a rusty piece of screen that came away when he touched it—to reveal heavy iron bars set in a solid metal frame. Now what? While he was considering that a man ran by outside shouting to someone unseen.

“A green Capri, it was. Number 8463Y. Went by me like a bat from hell.”

The car—what else! The murderer and the money. What was the number—8463Y? He was never going to remember it. Going through his pockets he found nothing to write with, nor was there anything other than a bundle of hundred dollar bills in the colonel's wallet. There was a bent nail on the window sill and he used this to scratch a message onto the end of the uppermost bill. GRN—CAPRI—8463Y. Done. Now to get out of here. And on his wrist the means of escape. Praise be for the good old FBI know-how.

When he pulled the tape off his wrist it took bits of skin with it, good tape that, and the wire length of the gigli saw fell free. He did not know how long it would take to saw through the bars but the sooner he started the quicker he would be out of here. Carefully he slid one end around the center bar and retrieved it. His index fingers fitted neatly into the loops at the ends of the wire saw so he could draw it taut against the metal. When he pulled it back and forth it instantly sank through the layers of paint and rust and chewed at the solid iron. Wonderful!

He worked it back and forth quickly a half dozen times and the saw broke in half.

Looking at the dangling lengths of wire, he felt only a great rage rising within him. It would have worked—it should have worked! But it broke. Why? Why anything, why this whole mad business? Wanting to lash out at something, he kicked the wall, but this only hurt his toe. Still possessed by anger, he seized the bars and pulled at them with all his might. They did not budge in the slightest.

Disgustedly he pushed them from him. The frame grated free from its loose lodging in the brick wall and fell heavily to the ground outside.

So much for fancy FBI techniques. Without questioning he accepted this windfall instantly and hurled himself through the window, banging his knee badly, then skinning his shin as he squeezed through and slithered to the ground outside. There was no one in sight and, before anymore of the muscled men could appear, he limped quickly up the road. As he came to the turning below the town center he heard a familiar coffee grinder whir from below and had plenty of time to seek cover in a sheltering doorway before the laboring VW bus churned slowly by. Worried faces were at every window with ready gun muzzles peeping shyly from below. None of the faces was that of the colonel, who, unless deserted on the cobbles of the harbor, must be lying, still unconscious, in the bus. The penalty of over-centralization of authority; all the lackeys could do was retire and regroup and wait for him to regain control. Passed out with fear when he had been pinked by the knife! The memory of that warmed Tony and was balm to his aches as he hurried up the hill in the wake of the vanished VW. A coward and a bully, not to mention a sadist, that is what the good colonel was. Eager to dish it out, petrifying with fear when on the receiving end. He would be twice the vicious enemy now that his little secret was known—but it was surely a secret worth knowing. Tony wished there was some way he could communicate the truth to the weathered J. Hardy and wife.

With a last heaving grade the road flattened out in the village center. All was as it should be here; apparently news of the events in the harbor and on the hillside below had not reached this far yet. Sturdy housewives emerged from stores with their laden wicker shopping baskets, calling cheerily one to the other; stalwart male Scots emerged from the bar calling out even more cheerily. One muscular man in blue overalls—weren't there any runts or culls in this town?—stamped over to a red gravel truck that stood in the parking lot and climbed in. The engine snorted to life and he backed out.
ROBINSON, BUILDERS
the legend on the door read. Tony had to stand clear as it swung out into the narrow road, going slowly to get by the parked cars, and for an instant the great tailgate hovered before him.

At times a nod is as good as a wink and here were nod and wink tapping him strongly on the shoulder. He did not need to be nodded, tapped or winked at twice. A quick glance around—no one was looking in his direction—then he clutched the grimy metal and hauled himself up and over to fall to the truck bed inside. There was a pile of loose rock forward that obscured the rear window to the driver's compartment; the sides were high enough to shield him from outside view. He lay back comfortably on the hard steel and watched the green boughs float by overhead.

Before they had gone more than a quarter of a mile there was a loud and imperious honking from behind the truck and his heart leapt like a rabbit over a hedge. Was he discovered? The truck was slowing, pulling over …

There was the clatter of gravel thrown by spinning wheels as the anxious car pulled by and rushed ahead, the truck following cetaceously in its wake. After this there were no more alarms.

When the truck rose up and dropped again, then halted, Tony tried to recall the road as he had seen it when they had first come here. A car whirred by ahead of them and the truck started up, turning. A road junction and a hump-backed bridge where they had turned off. The truck was going left now which meant it was not going back, retracing the VW's track in reverse, but continuing instead farther down the road along the peninsula. To where? He had vague memories of the map and of something farther on, stronger memories of the fact that the peninsula ended soon and there was nothing but green Atlantic after that. A seaport perhaps? Visions of ferry boats danced in his head. Or would that be asking too much? Best to wait and see. He was safe enough and comfortable enough where he was for the time being. Well, at least safe enough. With unexpected speed white clouds had rushed up to cover the sun, then covered the sky and proceeded to produce a fine, chill and penetrating mist. He clutched his collar tight about his neck and shivered, droplets beading his face. His lightweight suit, perfect for a Washington muggy spring, offered little resistance to the weather of this northern latitude. He remembered, unhappily, a geography teacher who had pointed out that the northern parts of the British Isles, where he undoubtedly was right now, were located at the same latitude as Hudson's Bay in Canada. Only the beneficent Gulf Stream made them habitable. Where was the Gulf Stream now when he needed it? Ice floes and snow; it could be no colder in Hudson's Bay at this moment.

Only hell is said to last forever and even purgatory has its end. After an unmeasurable period of misery, first houses then taller red-brick buildings began to swim into view above him, while the toot of a distant horn announced that traffic was about. He didn't know where he was, but he had arrived. Anywhere at all was fine; he had to get out of the truck. When it slowed to a halt he raised his head up warily and saw a circular patch of green with a stone cross in the center of it, shining wet pavement all around. Under him the truck shuddered as it ground into gear and lurched forward. He was over the tailgate and in the road, and in two steps was on the grass. The elderly driver of a small car just behind the truck was looking at him in what might be taken to be a suspicious manner, so he turned and waved cheerily to the vanishing truck. The car followed the truck and both rolled out of sight down a side street. Tony walked over and appeared to be examining the cross with great enthusiasm but, instead, was trying to see just where chance had put him down.

Waves slapped against the sea wall on the other side of the road, the sea itself reflecting the slate-gray clouds that rushed by low overhead, dropping a bit of rain on their way. No ferrets here, just some fishing boats tied up farther along—and he was staying away from fishing boats, thank you. Walking about the cross he saw the mainish sort of street extending away from him with signs proclaiming stores of all kinds—even a five-and-ten and a supermarket. Civilization again! He stepped off the curb, then pulled his foot back again. No, don't look that way—look
this
way. This way showed two cars and three bicycles bearing down upon him and he waited until they were past before hurrying across. Nearest to hand was the establishment of W. Urquhart & Co.—Gentlemen's Haberdashers. That was more like it. He pushed open the door wearily and stumbled inside. It was warm and a smiling young lady stepped forward and asked him if there was anything she could do for him. He swept the stock with eager eyes and pointed to a woolly tweed cap on a plaster head.

“A cap, I would very much like a cap.”

“Do you know your size, sir?”

“Seven, something like that.”

“Why don't you try this one for size?… Fits fine, sir, very nice it is too. That's a good buy at ninety-five pence.”

Pence? Pence. The land of pound and pence, he had forgotten about that. A quick glimpse into his thin wallet revealed a few singles and a solitary ten dollar bill, which he offered with an ingratiating smile to the girl. She looked at it, head cocked to one side, without a great deal of interest.

“I'm sorry, but we don't take foreign money here. Manager's orders. But the bank is just across the road. Closing in five minutes, and they can cash it for you.”

Five minutes! “Fine, just what I'll do, I'll be back.” He opened the door and her warm voice, with ever so slight a cutting edge, came after him:

“You wouldn't like to leave the cap, would you, sir? I'll have it ready for you when you come back.”

“Cap? Of course, I forgot. Here, I'll be right back.”

He slunk out, sweating in the cold rain, almost grabbed as a felon, a sly cap thief. Looking both ways quickly to make sure the road was clear, he hurried across the street and up the bank steps where a man in a blue uniform was just shutting the door. For a long moment he looked somberly at Tony, then up at the clock, which still lacked two minutes of half-past three, sighed and reluctantly opened to admit him. The interior was all brown wood and brass and had a very nineteenth-century air about it. But telephones still worked, even if they were hand cranked, and word must have been spread by now of the ransom money. With trepidation he approached the window labeled
FOREIGN EXCHANGE
and wondered just what to do. The few dollars he had were not going to get him very far. But if he cashed any of the money from the colonel's wallet he risked apprehension by the police. Well—let them arrest him! He might be able to get out of the charges, he surely had to get out of the charges—they couldn't believe he really had anything to do with the skyjacking. And if he were arrested at least he would be safely away from hulking Hibernians and Cuban killers. Be bold!

“I would like to cash one hundred U.S. dollars,” he said to the pallid creature imprisoned by the bars. “No, two—three hundred.” Whatever the amount the crime would be the same.

“Just a moment, if you please, I have to check.”

The teller left the window and went to confer with a colleague while Tony's heart did the now familiar triphammer routine inside his rib cage. The bank employees examined a sheet of paper, shook their heads sorrowfully over it, then the teller returned. A list of the stolen bills? The man looked very unhappy.

“You realize, sir, that there may be difficulties.”

“Difficulties?” Why was his voice so high pitched?

“You know how it is, international finance and all that. Your dollar, if you will excuse my saying so, tends to go up and down a good deal. Usually down. One has to be sure of the current rate. It's down again,” he added with insular relish.

“Whatever you say, here are the bills.”

After much pencil scratching arid rapid work with a hand-turned calculator the teller reached a conclusion and began to count bills out onto the counter before him. He was just adding coins to this when his associate came over and whispered in his ear, looking coldly at Tony all the while. The triphammer worked overtime.

“Sorry, sir,” the teller said, not sounding sorry at all. “But it's gone down again.” He pulled some of the bills from the pile and counted the rest again carefully.