Dick Francis - Dead Heat

“You seemed so bloody determined to find out who had poisoned the dinner.”

“Well, of course I was,” I said.

“But I couldn’t let that happen,” said George.

I stared at him. “You mean it was you who tried to kill me?”

“I arranged it,” he said rather arrogantly. There was no remorse in his voice.

I had liked George. I had always considered him to be a friend, and yet he had apparently twice arranged to have me killed. He had caused my car to be written off, he had burned my home and all my possessions and here he was standing in front of me with a gun in his hand and murder on his mind. Last week, I had told Dorothy Schumann that lots of people were murdered by their friends. I hadn’t expected that fact to be so manifestly demonstrated quite so soon.

“But you weren’t very good at it, were you?” I said, again goading him. “I bet Komarov wasn’t too pleased with that either, was he? You couldn’t even bump off a country chef, could you? Can’t you do anything right?” I echoed Komarov.

“Shut up,” he shouted again. He was becoming very agitated. “Bloody Gary couldn’t organize a proverbial bloody piss-up in a brewery.”

“So it was Gary who tried to kill me?” I said.

He ignored me and walked over to look through the circular window in the door to the kitchen.

“Why did Komarov bomb the box?” I asked him, changing direction.

“I told you to shut up,” said George, waving his gun at me.

“Was Rolf Schumann the target?” I asked, ignoring him.

“I said shut up,” he shouted, walking right up to me and pointing the gun at my head from about twelve inches away.

I ignored him again. If I made him angry enough, then perhaps he would do me a favor by killing me quickly. “Why bomb the box?” I said. “Surely that was out of all proportion. Why not just shoot Schumann, if he wanted to kill him? Nice and quiet, down some dark alley in Wisconsin?”

“Komarov doesn’t do things quietly,” said George. “Make a statement, that’s what he said. Show everyone he meant business. Schumann was stealing from him, and Komarov doesn’t like thieves. An example had to be set.” George was clearly repeating to me exactly what Komarov had said to him.

Strange logic, I thought. Schumann was a thief, so Komarov tried to murder him, and killed nineteen innocents instead, including the lovely Louisa and the conscientious MaryLou, and all in such horrific circumstances. Komarov was truly evil.

There was a shout from the kitchen. Then a shot. I was frantic. Please, God, I prayed, let it not be Caroline who was shot.

George backed away from me and again looked through the circular window in the swinging door and beyond into the kitchen. There was another shot, then another, followed by more shouts. Pity we had no near neighbors, I thought. Someone might have heard the shots and called the police.

Komarov came back quickly through the door.

“There’s someone outside the back,” he said to George. “I think I hit them. Go out and finish them off. I’ve sent that Gary out as well, so don’t shoot him.” George seemed to hesitate. “Now, George.” George moved through the door, his body language screaming that he didn’t want to go. Messing about in the dark with guns was not really his scene. But he should have thought of that before he became involved with a man like Komarov.

“Now, Mr. Moreton,” said Komarov, coming right up to me, “where is my ball?”

I almost laughed. If my legs hadn’t been taped to the chair legs, I would have kicked him in his balls. Then he’d have known where they were. He seemed to spot my amusement and his anger rose. He clearly expected me to be frightened into submission. Little did he realize that I was.

“I will give you one last chance to tell me, then I will shoot your left foot,” he said. “Then I will shoot your right foot, then your knees, your wrists and your elbows.” As he spoke, he ejected the partially used magazine from his gun and snapped in another from his pocket. I assumed it was fully loaded. “Now, time is passing. For the last time, where is it?” He leaned down towards my face. I wondered if it would help if I spat at him. Perhaps he would become so angry that he would kill me quickly. I tried it. He just laughed and wiped his face with his sleeve. “That won’t help you,” he said. “You will tell me what I want, I promise you. Then I will detonate the bomb and blow you and your restaurant to smithereens.” His Russian accent made it sound like “smisereens,” but I understood his meaning. Another example to be set, no doubt.

He stepped back and raised the gun. I wondered how much it would hurt. I wondered if I could stand it, and whether I would be able to stand the pain of both feet, my knees, my wrists and my elbows. I just couldn’t tell him to go to East Hendred, to Toby and Sally’s house, with their three lovely children. Whatever happened, I kept telling myself, I must not talk. I must not rain death and destruction down on my brother.

Komarov aimed his gun at my right foot.

“Wait,” I cried. His arm dropped a fraction.

“Yes?” he said.

“Why do you need it back anyway?” I asked. “You must have more, hundreds more.”

“Why would I have hundreds?” he asked, clearly curious to learn how much I knew. What should I tell him? Did it matter?

“To put inside the horses,” I said. “Full of drugs.”

The effect was quite startling. He went very pale, and his hand shook a little.

“Who knows this?” he said in a higher pitch than usual.

“Everyone,” I said. “I told the police.” I didn’t expect this comment to save me; quite the reverse. But I hoped it might now be a quicker, less painful death.

“That was very careless of you,” he said, returning somewhat to his normal voice. “For that, you will die.” I was going to die anyway. No change.

He started to walk around behind me. Good, I thought, he is going to shoot me in the back of the head. Much cleaner, and much better not to see it coming. I would just be…gone.

As Komarov passed my shoulder, Caroline stepped through the open doorway and hit him squarely in the face with her viola. She swung the instrument through the air with both hands, using the neck and fingerboard as a handle. Such was the force of the blow that poor dear Viola was damaged beyond repair. Her neck was broken and her body shattered, but, more important for me, Komarov went down to the ground semiconscious. Caroline herself was both hyperventilating and crying at the same time.

“Quick,” I shouted at her, “get a knife.” She looked at me. “From the sideboard,” I shouted. “Top drawer, on the left.” She went straight to the sideboard and came back with a nice sharp, serrated steak knife. I didn’t usually give my customers steak knives, as I thought it was an admission that my steaks were tough, but we kept a few just in case. Thank goodness we did. Even so, Caroline had difficulty cutting through the tape around my wrist. But she managed out of sheer desperation, hurried along by the imminent reawakening of the terror at our feet.

Finally, she freed my left hand.

“Quick,” I said again. “Grab his gun and give it to me.”

Komarov had fallen, but he had not let go of his pistol completely. Caroline went down and grabbed it out of his hand just as he was beginning to recover. She gave it to me, smiled wanly and went on trying to free me from the chair. Suddenly, I remembered the explosive. Where was the remote-detonator switch? Was it in Komarov’s pocket?

Caroline sawed away at the tape around my legs, but she was too slow. Komarov was fully awake and watching, a line of blood running down from his nose, across his mouth and on down his neck. He put his hand up to his face and winced. I think Caroline must have broken his nose.