Алистер Маклин - Seawitch

‘Yes.’

‘Get that for us too, please.’

‘Will do.’

He said to Mitchell: ‘Still think we shouldn’t warn Larsen about our suspicions?’

‘That’s for sure.’ Mitchell was very definite. ‘The Seawitch is Larsen’s baby, and the kind of reception he’d prepare might all too easily be over-enthusiastic. Or would you care for the job of explaining to Lord Worth how come his daughters got caught in cross-fire?’

‘I would not.’ Roomer spoke with some feeling.

‘Or even explaining to yourself how Melinda got shot through the lung?’

Roomer ignored him. ‘What if we’re wrong in our guesses about his lordship’s pilots?’

‘Then turn the whole thing over to that ace detective, McGarrity.’

‘So we’d better be right.’

They were right. They were also too late.

John Campbell was both an avid fisherman and an avid reader. He had long since mastered the techniques of indulging his two pleasures simultaneously. A creek, fairly popular with fish, ran within twenty feet of his back porch. Campbell was sitting on a canvas chair, parasol over his head, alternating every page with a fresh cast of his line, when Durand and one of his men, stocking-masked and holding guns in their hands, came into his line of vision. Campbell rose to his feet, book still in hand.

‘Who are you and what do you want?’

‘You. You’re Campbell, aren’t you?’

‘What if I am?’

‘Like you to do a little job for us.’

‘What job?’

‘Fly a helicopter for us.’

‘I’ll be damned if I do.’

‘So you are Campbell. Come along.’

Following the gesturing of their guns Campbell moved between the two men. He was within one foot of Durand’s gun hand when he chopped the side of his hand on the wrist that held the gun. Durand grunted in pain, the gun fell to the ground and a second later the two men were locked together, wrestling, kicking and punching with a fine disregard for the rules of sport, altering position so frequently that Durand’s henchman, gun barrel now in his hand – the last thing he wanted to do was to shoot Campbell – at first found no opportunity to intervene. But the opportunity came very soon. The unsportsmanlike but effective use of Campbell’s right knee doubled Durand over in gasping agony, but enough instinct was left him to seize Campbell’s shirt as he fell over backwards. This was Campbell’s downfall in more ways than one, for the back of his head simply cried out for the attentions of a gun-butt.

The man who had felled Campbell pulled Campbell clear, allowing Durand to climb painfully to his feet, although still bent over at an angle of 45 degrees. He pulled off his stocking mask as if to try to gain access to more air. Durand, surprisingly, was Latin American. He had a pale, coffee-coloured face, thick black curling hair and a pencil-line moustache and might even have proved to be handsome when the twisted lines of agony ceased to contort his face. He straightened inch by inch and finally obtained a modicum of breath, enough, at least, to allow him to announce what he would like to do with Campbell.

‘Have to be some other time, Mr Durand. He can’t very well fly a chopper from a hospital bed.’

Durand painfully acknowledged the truth of this. ‘I hope you didn’t hit him too hard.’

‘Just a tap.’

‘Tie him, tape him and blindfold him.’ Durand was now about twenty degrees off the vertical. His helpmate left for the car and returned in moments with cord, tape and blindfold. Three minutes later they were on their way, with a rug-covered and still unconscious Campbell on the floor at the back. Resting comfortably on the rug were Durand’s feet – he still didn’t feel quite up to driving. Both men had their masks off now – even in the free-wheeling state of Florida men with stocking masks in cars were apt to draw just a little more than passing attention.

Mitchell glanced briefly at the list of names and addresses Robertson had given them. ‘Fine. But what are those ticks opposite five of the names?’

Robertson sounded apologetic. ‘I hope you don’t mind – I don’t want to seem interfering – but I took the liberty of phoning those gentlemen to see if they would be at home when you called. I assumed you’d be calling because you asked for the addresses.’

Mitchell looked at Roomer. ‘Why the hell didn’t you think of that?’

Roomer bestowed a cold glance on him and said to Robertson, ‘Maybe I should have you as a partner. What did you find out?’

‘One pilot is standing by at the airport. Four of the others are at home. The one whose name I haven’t ticked – Mr John Campbell – isn’t home. I asked one of the other pilots about this, and he seemed a bit surprised. Said that Mr Campbell usually spends his afternoons fishing outside the back of his house. He’s a bachelor and lives in a pretty isolated place.’

‘It figures,’ Roomer said. ‘A bachelor in isolation. The kidnappers seem to have an excellent intelligence system. The fact that he doesn’t answer the phone may mean nothing – he could have gone for a walk, shopping, visiting friends. On the other hand–’

‘Yes. Especially on the other hand.’ Mitchell turned to leave, then said to Robertson: ‘Does the gate-keeper have a listed phone number as well as the radio-phone?’

‘I’ve typed it on that list.’

‘Maybe we should both have you as a partner.’

Mitchell and Roomer stood on Campbell’s back lawn and surveyed the scene unemotionally. The canvas chair, on its side, had a broken leg. The parasol was at full length on the grass, straddling an upturned book. The fishing rod was in the water up to its handle, and would have floated away had not the reel snagged on a shrub root. Roomer retrieved the rod while Mitchell hurried through the back doorway – the back door was wide open, as was the front. He dialled a phone number, which answered on the first ring. ‘Lord Worth’s heliport. Gorrie here.’

‘My name’s Mitchell. You have a police guard?’

‘Mr Mitchell? You Lord Worth’s friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sergeant Roper is here.’

‘That all? Let me speak to him.’ There was hardly a pause before Roper came on the phone. ‘Mike? Nice to hear from you again.’

‘Listen, Sergeant, this is urgent. I’m speaking from the house of John Campbell, one of Lord Worth’s pilots. He has been forcibly abducted, almost certainly by some of the kidnappers of Lord Worth’s daughters. I have every reason to believe – no time for explanations now – that they are heading in your direction with the intention of hijacking one of Lord Worth’s helicopters and forcing Campbell to fly it. There’ll be two of them at least, maybe three, armed and dangerous. I suggest you call up reinforcements immediately. If we get them we’ll break them – at least Roomer and I will, you can’t, you’re a law officer and your hands are tied – and we’ll find out where the girls are and get them back.’

‘Reinforcements coming up. Then I’ll look the other way.’

Mitchell hung up. Roomer was by his side. Roomer said: ‘You prepared to resort to torture to get the information you want?’

Mitchell looked at him bleakly. ‘I look forward to it. Don’t you?’

‘No. But I’ll go along with you.’

Once again Mitchell and Roomer had guessed correctly. And once again they were too late.

Mitchell had driven to Lord Worth’s heliport with a minimum regard for traffic and speed regulations, and now, having arrived there, realized bitterly that his haste had been wholly unnecessary.

Five men greeted their arrival, although it was hardly a cheerful meeting: Gorrie, the gateman, and four policemen. Gorrie and Sergeant Roper were tenderly massaging their wrists. Mitchell looked at Roper.