Queen Victoria's Revenge (21 page)

“Said! The pump was broken and the stuff was right up to there!”

“Please, let me finish. Then Jasmin had the Al Fatah arms loaded aboard and locked in the rest room. The Cubans, and your former friend Angus, were waiting in the transit lounge in the Los Angeles airport. They boarded and skyjacked the plane with the hidden weapons and you flew it here. Then the skyjackers split up in two cars—but the treacherous game wasn't over yet. Angus and his men jumped the Cubans and got all the money away from them, killing Garcia at the same time, undoubtedly because he
knew too much.
We are getting close to the end now because the money was taken from Angus soon after, and he was killed then for the same reason that Garcia was. He knew far too much. He knew the identity of the secret master, the devilish warped mind behind the entire plot, the man who had organized everything and who, in the end, wanted all of the money to himself. Wouldn't you agree that is how it went, Haycroft?”

As Tony had been talking Haycroft had been backing slowly away, his eyes moving quickly from one to the other of the variegated audience. “Hawkin,” he said hoarsely, “I think you are out of your ever-loving mind. Will you kindly just take all your friends and leave?”

“Not good enough, Captain. Because we
know.
We know who the secret master is. You were in Scotland that day, remember? I saw you in the train station with your hokey story about looking at mug photos. Well I know better now, Haycroft. I know that that story was not only a lie but that
you
are the secret master! Where is the money? Hand it over, quickly, because these are desperate men—and women.”

Haycroft was at the open door where the truck had been, able to go no farther, his back to the twenty-foot drop. His expression was calm, controlled, his voice steady as only a professional pilot's can be during an emergency. But his forehead was beaded with sweat.

“That's a fine theory, yes, very good. You'll rise to the highest ranks of the FBI with police work like this. It all makes sense, everything—except the fact that I did the job. I did not. I was with the police that entire day, until they took me to the train for the return trip. Call Scotland Yard and they will verify that in two minutes. So it looks like you have the wrong man.”

“No!” Tony said. “It
had
to be you.”

“Sorry,” a new voice said. “But he's not the guilty party. The captain is correct. He was with the police in Glasgow all that day.”

As though following a masterful stroke in some invisible tennis game, every head snapped about and looked toward the entrance. Inspector Smivey of Scotland Yard stood there, umbrella tightly rolled, his bowler set square upon his head.

“Who are you?” Willy called out loudly. “We want no interference now.”

The inspector merely smiled and walked to the first row of remaining chairs and seated himself comfortably. “Some of you here know me. I am Inspector Smivey of Scotland Yard.”

There was a thunder of feet and a concerted rush toward the exit and the inspector called out loudly, “I wouldn't do that if I were you. There hasn't been an honest workingman on this field for the past half hour. Every man out there, and you will notice that they are pretty much standing about on all sides, is a policeman. Therefore I ask you all to restrain your desires to leave at once and to remain until this present situation is resolved. Do carry on, Hawkin. You were doing quite well until I interrupted.”

“But—you said the captain could not possibly be the guilty party.”

“So I did, and that is correct. But the rest of your summation has been very accurate and correct up until the last moment. Someone was the originator of the plan, just as you said, and committed all the murders and outrages in the order recited. But I am afraid that your meeting with the captain in Glasgow led you down rather a false trail. Instead of pursuing that lead you should have been following the clue that would have led you to the killer, the clue that was in your possession all the time. The identity of the car the killer escaped from Carradale in.

“That's no good, there is no such number. It was checked by … er … someone, with the police and the number doesn't exist.”

“Very loyal of you. But Miss Ben-Alter contacted me with the number, which was the wisest thing she could do.” Cuban, Scot, Egyptian eyes sent glares of hatred in the Israeli direction. Esther smiled at the attention and made a slight curtsy. “If we had had the number and information earlier we could have worked faster, but that is neither here nor there. Suffice to say we were instantly on the job. Firstly, we knew the numbers were false. Easy enough to do in law-abiding Britain where motorists are not obliged to use officially issued number plates but may buy their own, they're sold everywhere. But what kind of a car should this secret master use? A stolen car is too dangerous to drive on an extended trip, too many official eyes see it, officials who have the latest list of missing cars. If it were a privately owned car then, of course, we would not have been able to trace it so easily. But what if it were a
rented
car.” The inspector smiled around, happy to see his captive audience hanging on his every word. The tension increased as he stoked an ancient pipe and puffed it to life.

“There you have it. It isn't easy to check every rental car in Britain for a certain day, but it can be done. There were a number of Ford Capris out that day, and a certain percentage of them were green. Not too many though, and by carefully examining the records we made an astonishing discovery. Remember, very solid identification must be produced to rent a car costing thousands of pounds, and I'm afraid our master criminal slipped up on this one point. He rented the car under his own name. Didn't you, Waterbury?”

Tubby blinked and gaped widely, hands jammed in the pockets of the greasy coveralls. “Are you cracked, Inspector? I've been right here all the time. Maybe someone used my name…”

“Sorry. You used your passport and signed your name. Hurried to Scotland, murdered Angus, grabbed the money, then returned the same day. We have the mileage on the car and it fits the trip exactly. Now what do you say to that?”

“Simply this.” He took a pistol in a gold-stamped leather holster from his pocket, pulled out the pistol and pointed it at them. “I have gone through too much to be cheated now. Anyone who moves will be killed, that's a promise.”

Without turning he shuffled backward to the door and fumbled for the release for the emergency exit slide, then pulled it. Compressed air hissed loudly but, instead of the rubber slide unfolding, the cover simply flopped open loosely. He reached inside the container and took out a suitcase.

“The money!” Tony said, stepping forward. The gun swiveled instantly in his direction.

“Don't be foolish, Tubby,” the inspector said calmly. “You can't get through the cordon of officers below.”

“Tubby!” Tubby shrieked. “Tubby and Fatty and Lardy, that's what they always called me and I always smiled. Old Tubby, everyone's friend. Always laughing, but now they can laugh out of the other side of their mouths, oh yes they can. I'm going and anyone trying to stop me stops a bullet. If your cops try to stop me I kill
her!”

As he said this he reached out and pulled Esther to him, clumsily with the suitcase in his hand, pressing the gun to her neck.

“Let go of her,” Tony called out, taking another step closer.

“Hold it right there, Hawkin, or she gets it, I mean it.”

“Sure you do, Tubby,” Tony said, attempting a sneer. “Little fat boys are great at beating up on girls.”

“Stop, Tony, please,” Esther said as she was dragged through the door to the top of the stairs, but he followed right behind.

“Come on, fat stuff. If you're such a big man why don't you shoot
me
instead of a helpless girl? Because if you don't shoot me I'm going to beat about twenty pounds of lard out of your hide.”

Tubby Waterbury was shaking with rage, feeling with his feet for the stairs, trying to ignore the insults. But when Tony moved forward suddenly he shouted something wordless, raised the gun and fired. Esther screamed.

Tubby screamed louder as the gun blew up in his hand with a flat thud. His arms flew wide at the shock, Esther dropped to her knees, the bag went flying over the side.

“Are you hurt?” Tony asked Esther, shouldering aside the blubbering, bloody-handed Tubby.

“No, I'm fine, just shocked. You were so brave, for my sake, you shouldn't have done it.”

“Well, I wasn't
that
brave. Though I was afraid he might pull the trigger up close and hurt you. That was my gun he had, probably taken from Angus, who took it from Ramon, who took it from me. Or something. I recognized it and remembered it was jimmied to blow up if someone tried to fire it.”

“It was still a very brave thing to do and I will love you forever for it.”

“Dyma Cymru!”

The victorious cry came from the ground below and was followed instantly by the popping sound of a motorbike. The inspector, who already had a cuff on Tubby's good hand and was wrapping a large red kerchief about the bad one, looked up, startled.

Out from under the wing came the stuttering motorbike, ridden by a short white-skinned and dark-haired man. He had the suitcase across the handlebars and as he passed he shook his fist up at them and shouted, “Wales will be free!” then grabbed back at the hand grip and wobbled away rapidly across the field.

“I know that man!” Inspector Smivey roared. “Jones, the chap from Wales Unbound, always after my wife for contributions to the cause because he knows she was born in Swansea.” He grated his teeth together. “She's been talking to him, telling him about this case, that's what got him here.” He looked at Tony and smiled insincerely. “But we won't mention that, will we, Hawkin? He won't get far, I have half the constables in Kent around this field.” He extracted a whistle from his pocket and blew a piercing trill. “That'll bring them in. Better round up this lot before we have any more accidents.”

FIFTEEN

“All in all a good operation,” agent Ross Sones said, shuffling through the papers on his desk, tapping his teeth with his pencil, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, smoothing down his bald head. “Started out badly but all's well that ends well, as someone said.”

“Shakespeare.”

“Who is that, Hawkin, someone else involved with this case you haven't mentioned? There have certainly been some complicated factors, I can see that.”

“No, sir, nothing, I think you have it all wrapped up.”

“Not exactly all wrapped up. This Scotland Yard man, Smivey, wants a statement was brought here. Like where is Esther Ben-Alter?”

“In the outside office waiting for you as soon as we are finished. The rest? Let me see the list. The colonel and his pack of counter-revolutionaries. Pretty clear-cut there. They skyjacked the plane and he has been fingered as the man in charge. They'll have a quick trial and will then get filed away in prison for a number of years.”

“That's nice. And I know a couple in Glasgow who will be glad to hear that as well. What about Willy and his Scots patriots?”

“Scotland Yard is sorting that one out, and they're welcome to it. Apparently the only Scotsman they can prove was involved physically in the skyjacking was Angus, now deceased. They are trying to find out which of the other Scots were involved in the affair, but it's difficult, they are a closed-mouth lot, not very friendly.”

“Longest occupied country in the history of the world.”

“I'm sure that has something to do with it. But we're not involved in that part of the business, thank goodness, though Scotland Yard wants you to try and identify any of the men who took the money from the car.”

“That's going to be hard,” Tony said, in a burst of Highland loyalty. “Scotsmen are like Indians, hard to tell one from the other.”

“You're probably right. Just tell them what you know and sign the affidavit. Who else? They have that Egyptian girl as an accomplice, as well as some Al Fatah thug they picked up trying to slip out of the country.”

“Justice will be done.”

“That's about it. A good roundup of all involved, some quick trials and open and shut convictions, all the money returned. Here's your passport, you never did pick it up. I've booked you on a late flight tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute! I have to go to Scotland Yard, make depositions, get a shave, lots of things. Is there any reason I can't stay on here a bit—they can take it off my vacation time?”

“There have been a couple of flaps back at your operation, I understand. Something about chocolate hand grenades.”

“They can last without me a few days more. Come on, Sones buddy, be a buddy, will you? We've been through thick and thin together, Mexico and England, Washington and, you know, everything. Make some excuses, get me a week. I'll pay for it myself, really I will.”

Sones chewed the inside of his cheek meditatively. “Well—don't see why not. They may need you here for questioning, have that Inspector Smivey report that officially and you'll have a reason. Do you think he'll co-operate?”

“I know he will.” Memories of the Free Wales movement glowed brightly before him. “I'll have that letter for you today.”

“Then that about wipes it up, Hawkin. I'm going back tonight with the money, special Air Force plane and armed guard, taking no chances. I'll put my report in when I get back. This will look good on your record, yes it will. I can tell you now, in all confidence, I was never really sure of you after that last operation in Mexico. But you're a trouper, Hawkin, a credit to the Bureau. Too bad you're not a better shot. Close the door behind you on the way out.”

He had to open the door first to do this, and when he did he came face to face with Stocker, the burly Treasury agent. The fact that Stocker was carrying a large and familiar suitcase did not interfere with his reflexes, so that with an incredibly swift movement he produced a sawed-off submachine gun and leveled it at Tony.