"For Kicks" - читать интересную книгу автора (Francis Dick)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

So much for my fears, I thought. So much for my melodramatic imagination. She was perfectly safe. She held a half empty glass of pink liquid in her hand, having a friendly drink with Adams and Humber, and she was smiling.

Humber's face looked anxious, but Adams was laughing and enjoying himself. It was a picture which printed itself clearly on my mind before they all three turned and looked at me.

"Daniel!" Elinor exclaimed.

"Mr. Adams said you had gone."

"Yes. I left something behind. I came back for it."

"Lady Elinor Tarren," said Adams with deliberation, coming round behind me, closing the door and leaning against it, 'came to see if you had conducted the experiment she lent you her dog whistle for. "

It was just as well, after all, that I had gone back.

"Oh, surely I didn't say that," she protested.

"I just came to get the whistle, if Daniel had finished with it. I

mean, I was passing, and I thought I could save him the trouble of sending it. "

I turned to him.

"Lady Elinor Tarren," I said with equal deliberation, 'does not know what I borrowed her whistle for. I didn't tell her. She knows nothing about it. "

His eyes narrowed and then opened into a fixed stare. His jaw bunched.

He took in the way I had spoken to him, the way I looked at him. It was not what he was used to from me. He transferred his stare to Elinor.

"Leave her alone," I said.

"She doesn't know."

"What on earth are you talking about?" said Elinor, smiling.

"What was this mysterious experiment, anyway?"

"It wasn't important," I said.

"There's… er… there's a deaf lad here, and we wanted to know if he could hear high pitched noises, that's all."

"Oh," she said, 'and could he? "

I shook my head.

"I'm afraid not."

"What a pity." She took a drink, and ice tinkled against the glass.

"Well, if you've no more use for it, do you think I could have my whistle back?"

"Of course." I dug into my money belt, brought out the whistle, and gave it to her. I saw Humber's astonishment and Adams' spasm of fury that Humber's search had missed so elementary a hiding place.

"Thank you," she said, putting the whistle in her pocket.

"What are your plans now? Another stable job?

You know," she said to Humber, smiling, " I'm surprised you let him go.

He rode better than any lad we've ever had in Father's stables. You were lucky to have him. "

I had not ridden well for Humber. He began to say heavily, "He's not all that good…" when Adams smoothly interrupted him.

"I think we have underestimated Roke, Hedley. Lady Elinor, I am sure Mr. Humber will take him back on your recommendation, and never let him go again."

"Splendid," she said warmly.

Adams was looking at me with his hooded gaze to make sure I had appreciated his little joke. I didn't think it very funny.

"Take your helmet off," he said.

"You're indoors and in front of a lady. Take it off."

"I think I'll keep it on," I said equably. And I could have done with a full suit of armour to go with it. Adams was not used to me contradicting him, and he shut his mouth with a snap.

Humber said, puzzled, "I don't understand why you bother with Roke, Lady Elinor. I thought your father got rid of him for… well… molesting you."

"Oh no," she laughed.

"That was my sister. But it wasn't true, you know. It was all made up." She swallowed the last of her drink and with the best will in the world put the finishing touches to throwing me to the wolves.

"Father made me promise not to tell anyone that it was all a story, but as you're Daniel's employer you really ought to know that he isn't anything like as bad as he lets everyone believe."

There was a short, deep silence. Then I said, smiling, "That's the nicest reference I've ever had… you're very kind."

"Oh dear," she laughed.

"You know what I mean… and I can't think why you don't stick up for yourself more."

"It isn't always advisable," I said, and raised an eyebrow at Adams.

He showed signs of not appreciating my jokes either. He took Elinor's empty glass.

"Another gin and Campari?" he suggested.

"No thank you, I must be going."

He put her glass down on the desk with his own, and said, "Do you think Roke would be the sort of man who'd need to swallow tranquillizers before he found the nerve to look after a difficult horse?"

"Tranquillizers? Tranquillizers? Of course not. I shouldn't think he ever took a tranquillizer in his life. Did you?" she said, turning to me and beginning to look puzzled.

"No," I said. I was very anxious for her to be on her way before her puzzlement grew any deeper. Only while she suspected nothing and learned nothing was she safe enough.

"But you said…" began Humber, who was still unenlightened.

"It was a joke. Only a joke," I told him.

"Mr. Adams laughed about it quite a lot, if you remember."

"That's true. I laughed," said Adams sombrely. At least he seemed willing for her ignorance to remain undisturbed, and to let her go.

"Oh," Elinor's face cleared.

"Well… I suppose I'd better be getting back to college. I'm going to Slaw tomorrow for the weekend… do you have any message for my father, Daniel?"

It was a casual, social remark, but I saw Adams stiffen.

I shook my head.

"Well… it's been very pleasant, Mr. Humber. Thank you so much for the drink. I hope I haven't taken too much of your time."

She shook Humber's hand, and Adams', and finally mine.

"How lucky you came back for something. I thought I'd missed you… and that I could whistle for my whistle." She grinned.

I laughed.

"Yes, it was lucky."

"Goodbye then. Goodbye Mr. Humber," she said, as Adams opened the door for her. She said goodbye to him on the doorstep, where he remained, and over Humber's shoulder I watched through the window as she walked across to her car. She climbed in, started the engine, waved gaily to Adams, and drove out of the yard. My relief at seeing her go was even greater than my anxiety about getting out myself.

Adams stepped inside, shut the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Humber was surprised. He still did not understand.

He said, staring at me, "You know, Roke doesn't seem the same. And his voice is different."

"Roke, damn him to hell, is God knows what."

The only good thing in the situation that I could see was that I no longer had to cringe when he spoke to me. It was quite a relief to be able to stand up straight for a change. Even if it didn't last long.

"Do you mean it is Roke, and not Elinor Tarren after all, who knows about the whistle?"

"Of course," said Adams impatiently.

"For Christ's sake, don't you understand anything? It looks as though October planted him on us, though how in hell he knew…"

"But Roke is only a stable lad."

"Only," said Adams savagely.

"But that doesn't make it any better.

Stable lads have tongues, don't they? And eyes? And look at him. He's not the stupid worm he's always seemed. "

"No one would take his word against yours," said Humber.

"No one is going to take his word at all."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm going to kill him," said Adams.

"I suppose that might be more satisfactory." Humber sounded as if he were discussing putting down a horse.

"It won't help you," I said.

"I've already sent a report to the Stewards."

"We were told that once before," said Humber, 'but it wasn't true. "

"It is, this time."

Adams said violently, "Report or no report, I'm going to kill him.

There are other reasons. " He broke off, glared at me, and said, " You fooled me. Me. How? "

I didn't reply. It hardly seemed a good time for light conversation.

"This one," said Humber reflectively, 'has a motorcycle. "

I remembered that the windows in the office's wash room were all too small to escape through. The door to the yard was locked, and Humber stood in front of his desk, between me and the window. Yelling could only bring Cass, not the poor rabble of lads who didn't even know I was there, and wouldn't bother to help me in any case. Both Adams and Humber were taller and heavier than I was, Adams a good deal so.

Humber had his stick and I didn't know what weapon Adams proposed to use; and I had never been in a serious fight in my life. The next few minutes were not too delightful a prospect.

On the other hand I was younger than they, and, thanks to the hard work they had exacted, as fit as an athlete. Also I had the crash helmet. And I could throw things. perhaps the odds weren't impossible, after all.

A polished wooden chair with a leather seat stood by the wall near the door. Adams picked it up and walked towards me. Humber, remaining still, slid his stick through his hands and held it ready.

I felt appallingly vulnerable.

Adams' eyes were more opaque than I had ever seen them, and the smile which was growing on his mouth didn't reach them. He said loudly, "We might as well enjoy it. They won't look too closely at a burnt-out smash."

He swung the chair. I dodged it all right but in doing so got within range of Humber, whose stick landed heavily on top of my shoulder, an inch from my ear. I stumbled and fell, and rolled: and stood up just in time to avoid the chair as Adams crashed it down. one of the legs broke off as it hit the floor, and Adams bent down and picked it up. A solid, straight, squMre-edged chair leg with a nasty sharp point where it had broken from the seat.

Adams smiled more, and kicked the remains of the chair into a corner.

"Now," he said, 'we'll have some sport. "

If you could call it sport, I suppose they had it.

Certainly after a short -SQafiepf time they were still relatively unscathed, wh^^Fw^^some more bruises to my collection, together With fast bleeding cut on the forehead from the sharp end of Adams' chair leg. But the crash helmet hampered their style considerably, and I discovered a useful talent for dodging. I also kicked.

Humber, being a slow mover, stayed at his post guarding the window and slashed at me whenever I came within his reach. As the office was not large this happened too often. I tried from the beginning either to catch hold of one of the sticks, or to pick up the broken chair, or to find something to throw, but all that happened was that my hands fared badly, and Adams guessed my intentions regarding the chair and made sure I couldn't get hold of it. As for throwing things the only suitable objects in that bare office were on Humber's desk, behind Humber.

Because of the cold night on the hillside I was wearing two jerseys under my jacket, and they did act as some sort of cushion: but Adams particularly hit very hard, and I literally shuddered whenever he managed to connect. I had had some idea of crashing out through the window, glass and all, but they gave me no chance to get there, and there was a limit to the time I could spend trying.

In desperation I stopped dodging and flung myself at Humber. Ignoring Adams, who promptly scored two fearful direct hits, I grasped my ex-employer by the lapels, and with one foot on the desk for leverage, swung him round and threw him across the narrow room. He landed with a crash against the filing cabinets.

There on the desk was the green glass paper weight. The size of a cricket ball. It slid smoothly into my hand, and in one unbroken movement I picked it up, pivoted on my toes, and flung it straight at Humber where he sprawled off-balance barely ten feet away.

It took him centrally between the eyes. A sweet shot. It knocked him unconscious. He fell without a sound.

I was across the room before he hit the floor, my hand stretching out for the green glass ball which was a better weapon to me than any stick or broken chair. But Adams understood too quickly. His arm went up.

I made the mistake of thinking that one more blow would make no real difference and didn't draw back from trying to reach the paper weight even when I knew Adams' chair leg was on its way down. But this time, because I had my head down, the crash helmet didn't save me. Adams hit me below the rim of the helmet, behind the ear.

Dizzily twisting, I fell against the wall and ended up lying with my shoulders propped against it and one leg doubled underneath me. I tried to stand up, but there seemed to be no strength left in me anywhere. My head was floating. I couldn't see very well. There was a noise inside my ears.

Adams leaned over me, unsnapped the strap of my crash helmet, and pulled it off my head. That meant something, I thought groggily. I looked up. He was standing there smiling, swinging the chair leg.

Enjoying himself.

In the last possible second my brain cleared a little and I knew that if I didn't do something about it, this blow was going to be the last.

There was no time to dodge. I flung up my right arm to shield my undefended head, and the savagely descending piece of wood crashed into it.

It felt like an explosion. My hand fell numb and useless by my side.

What was left? Ten seconds. Perhaps less. I was furious. I particularly didn't want Adams to have the pleasure of killing me. He was still smiling. Watching to see how I would take it, he slowly raised his arm for the coup de grace.

No, I thought, no. There was nothing wrong with my legs. What on earth was I thinking of, lying there waiting to be blacked out when I still had two good legs? He was standing on my right. My left leg was bent under me and he took no special notice when I disentangled it and crossed it over in front of him. I lifted both my legs off the ground, one in front and one behind his ankles, then I kicked across with my right leg, locked my feet tight together and rolled my whole body over as suddenly and strongly as I could.

Adams was taken completely by surprise. He overbalanced with wildly swinging arms and fell with a crash on his back. His own weight made the fall more effective from my point of view, because he was winded and slow to get up. I couldn't throw any longer with my numb right hand. Staggering to my feet, I picked the green glass ball up in my left and smashed it against Adams' head while he was still on his knees. It seemed to have no effect. He continued to get up. He was grunting.

Desperately I swung my arm and hit him again, low down on the back of the head. And that time he did go down; and stayed down.

I half fell beside him, dizzy and feeling sick, with pain waking up viciously all over my body and blood from the cut on my forehead dripping slowly on to the floor.

I don't know how long I stayed like that, gasping to get some breath back, trying to find the strength to get up and leave the place, but it can't really have been very long. And it was the thought of Cass, in the end, which got me to my feet. By that stage I would have been a pushover for a toddler, let alone the wiry little head lad.

Both of the men lay in heaps on the ground, not stirring. Adams was breathing very heavily; snoring, almost. Humber's chest scarcely moved.

I passed my left hand over my face and it came away covered with blood. There must be blood all over my face, I thought. I couldn't go riding along the road covered in blood. I staggered into the washroom to rinse it off.

There were some half melted ice cubes in the sink. Ice. I looked at it dizzily. Ice in the refrigerator. Ice clinking in the drinks. Ice in the sink. Good for stopping bleeding. I picked up a lump of it and looked in the mirror. A gory sight. I held the lump of ice on the cut and tried, in the classic phrase, to pull myself together. With little success.

After a while I splashed some water into the sink and rinsed all the blood off my face. The cut was then revealed as being only a couple of inches long and not serious, though still obstinately oozing. I looked round vaguely for a towel.

On the table by the medicine cupboard stood a glass jar with the stopper off and a teaspoon beside it. My glance nickered over it, looking for a towel, and then back, puzzled. I took three shaky steps across the room. There was something the jar should be telling me, I thought, but I wasn't grasping things very clearly.

A bottle of phenobarbitone in powder form, like the stuff I'd given Mickey every day for a fortnight. Only phenobarbitone, that was all. I sighed.

Then it struck me that Mickey had had the last dose in the bottle. The bottle should be empty. Tipped out. Not full. Not a new bottle full to the bottom of the neck, with the pieces of wax from the seal still lying in crumbs on the table beside it. Someone had just opened a new bottle of soluble phenobarbitone and used a couple of spoonfuls.

Of course. For Kandersteg.

I found a towel and wiped my face. Then I went back into the office and knelt down beside Adams to get the door key out of his pocket. He had stopped snoring.

I rolled him over.

There isn't a pretty way of saying it. He was dead.

Small trickles of blood had seeped out of his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. I felt his head where I had hit him, and the dented bones moved under my fingers.

Aghast and shaking, I searched in his pockets and found the key. Then I stood up and went slowly over to the desk to telephone to the police.

The telephone had been knocked on to the floor, where it lay with the receiver off. I bent down and picked it up clumsily left handed, and my head swam with dizziness. I wished I didn't feel so ill.

Straightening up with an effort I put the telephone back on the desk.

Blood started trickling again past my eyebrow. I hadn't the energy to wash it off again.

Out in the yard one or two lights were on, including the one in Kandersteg's box. His door was wide open and the horse himself, tied up by the head, was lashing out furiously in a series of kicks. He didn't look in the least sedated.

I stopped with my fingers in the dial of the telephone, and felt myself go cold. My brain cleared with a click.

Kandersteg was not sedated. They wouldn't want his memory lulled. The opposite, in fact. Mickey had not been given any phenobarbitone until he was clearly deranged.

I didn't want to believe what my mind told me; that one or more teaspoonfuls of soluble phenobarbitone in a large gin and Campari would be almost certainly fatal.

Sharply I remembered the scene I had found in the office, the drinks, the anxiety on Humber's face, the enjoyment on Adams'. It matched the enjoyment I had seen there when he thought he was killing me. He enjoyed killing. He had thought from what she had said that Elinor had guessed the purpose of the whistle, and he had wasted no time in getting rid of her.

No wonder he had raised no objections to her leaving. She would drive back to college and die in her room miles away, a silly girl who had taken an overdose. No possible connection with Adams or Humber.

And no wonder he had been so determined to kill me: not only because of what I knew about his horses, or because I had fooled him, but because I had seen Elinor drink her gin.

It didn't need too much imagination to picture the scene before I had arrived. Adams was saying smoothly, "So you came to see if Roke had used the whistle?"

"Yes."

"And does your father know you're here? Does he know about the whistle?"

"Oh no, I only came on impulse. Of course he doesn't know."

He must have thought her a fool, blundering in like that: but probably he was the sort of man who thought all women were fools anyway.

"You'd like some ice in your drink? I'll get some. No bother. Just next door. Here you are, my dear, a strong gin and phenobarbitone and a quick trip to heaven."

He had taken the same reckless risk of killing Staple- ton, and it had worked. And who was to say that if I had been found in the next county over some precipice,

smashed up in the ruins of a motor-cycle, and Elinor died in her college, that he wouldn't have got away with two more murders?

If Elinor died.

My finger was still in the telephone dial. I turned it three times, nine, nine, nine. There was no answer. I rattled the button, and tried again. Nothing. It was dead, the whole telephone was dead. Everything was dead, Mickey was dead, Stapleton was dead, Adams was dead, Elinor stop it, stop it. I dragged my scattering wits together. If the telephone wouldn't work, someone would have to go to Elinor's college and prevent her dying.

My first thought was that I couldn't do it. But who else? If I were right, she needed a doctor urgently, and any time I wasted on bumbling about finding another telephone or another person to go in my stead was just diminishing her chances. I could reach her in less than twenty minutes. By telephoning in Posset I could hardly get help for her any quicker.

It took me three shots to get the key in the keyhole. I couldn't hold the key at all in my right hand, and the left one was shaking. I took a deep breath, unlocked the door, walked out, and shut it behind me.

No one noticed me as I went out of the yard the way I had come and went back to the motor-bike. But it didn't fire properly the first time I kicked the starter, and Cass came round the end of the row of boxes to investigate.

"Who's that?" he called.

"Is that you, Clan? What are you doing back here?" He began to come towards me.

I stamped on the starter fiercely. The engine spluttered, coughed, and roared. I squeezed the clutch and kicked the bike into gear.

"Come back," yelled Cass. But I turned away from his hurrying figure, out of the gate and down the road to Posset, with gravel spurting under the tyres.

The throttle was incorporated into the hand grip of the right hand handle-bar. One merely twisted it towards one to accelerate and away to slow down. Twisting the hand grip was normally easy. It was not easy that evening because once I had managed to grip it hard enough to turn it the numbness disappeared from my arm with a vengeance. I damned nearly fell off before I was through the gate.

It was ten miles northeast to Durham. One and a half downhill to Posset, seven and a half across the moors on a fairly straight and unfrequented secondary road, one mile through the outskirts of the city. The last part, with turns and traffic and too much change of pace, would be the most difficult.

Only the knowledge that Elinor would probably die if I came off kept me on the motor-bike at all, and altogether it was a ride I would not care to repeat. I didn't know how many times I had been hit, but I didn't think a carpet had much to tell me. I tried to ignore it and concentrate on the matter in hand.

Elinor, if she had driven straight back to college,

could not have been there long before she began to feel sleepy. As far as I could remember, never having taken much notice, barbiturates took anything up to an hour to work. But barbiturate dissolved in alcohol was a different matter. Quicker. Twenty minutes to half an hour, perhaps. I didn't know. Twenty minutes from the time she left the yard was easily enough for her to drive back safely. Then what? She would go up to her room: feel tired: lie down: and go to sleep.

During the time I had been fighting with Adams and Humber she had been on her way to Durham. I wasn't sure how long I had wasted dithering about in the washroom in a daze, but she couldn't have been back to college much before I started after her. I wondered whether she would have felt ill enough to tell a friend, to ask for help: but even if she had, neither she nor anyone else would know what was the matter with her.

I reached Durham: made the turns: even stopped briefly for a red traffic light in a busy street: and fought down an inclination to go the last half mile at walking pace in order to avoid having to hold the throttle any more. But my ignorance of the time it would take for the poison to do irreparable damage added wings to my anxiety.