Colin Forbes - Deadlock

Klein perched the sack jammed full of rocks and sand on top of the Citroen. He produced a length of rope, attached it to the neck of the sack. He then secured the sack at both ends, tying the rope to the bars of the rack.

'What's that in aid of?' Marler enquired.

'You climb to the top of the quarry. The left-hand side is the easier route. Get up there as fast as you can – before the light improves. Wave to me when you're ready. I shall then drive this car at speed round the base of this quarry. Your target is the sack, which will be bouncing about. I am taking a risk – I will be behind the wheel…'

'No risk at all,' Marler drawled. 'I get it now. And by the time I get up there the light will be really tricky – how many shots?'

'Would six be all right? We'll see how many you get on target.'

'Anything you say. Let me check that sandbag first.'

He fetched a pair of driving gloves from inside the car and put them on. Placing the rifle gently across the boot, he began punching the sandbag like a boxer. He punched at it from all angles. Then he tossed the gloves back into the car.

'Tighter than a girl's pantyhose. We don't want you delivering the car hire outfit a vehicle with bullet-holes in the roof,' He paused. 'Or in your head. You've got guts, Klein – doing this. I'll give you that.'

Marler walked away and Klein watched his silhouette in the gloom. Carrying the rifle in both hands he went up the steep path like a mountain goat. At the summit he looked down. The dawn was now a weird amber light. Klein stood waiting by the Citroen.

Marler aimed the sight straight at Klein, then adjusted the sight and checked again. He took his time. In the heavy silence which lay over the forest behind he heard a faint sound. The impatient shuffling of Klein's feet. Let the sod wait. He adjusted the sight a fraction, stared into the lens, waved his hand.

He waited while Klein drove the Citroen three circuits as fast as he could round the floor of the quarry, sending up great clouds of sand. That was going to be a great help. Klein drove deviously, stopping suddenly, skidding, accelerating, following a different course each circuit.

Marler raised his rifle, squinted through the sights, pulled the trigger of the automatic weapon rapidly. Inside the car, above the noise of the engine, Klein heard the thump of the heavy slugs hitting the bouncing sack above him. He swung the Citroen into a vicious turn, skidded sideways, losing control for a few seconds. The thumps continued in swift succession. When he'd counted six he slowed, stopped, waited a moment to show Marler he had stopped, opened the door slowly and got out.

When Marler reached him after slithering down the path there was a pallid glow reflecting off the quarry walls. Klein was using a torch to examine the sack. Marler brushed rock dust off his trousers, held the rifle loosely in his right hand as he spoke.

'Well?'

'Six out of six. Quite remarkable. You are a crack shot.'

'That's why you hired me, wasn't it? A moving target, you said. And presumably I'll be operating from high up – hence the firing position at the top of the quarry. That much I need to know.'

His voice was cold, his last remark a demand. A different voice from anything Klein had heard before.

'Yes, you will be firing from altitude.'

Klein used a pen-knife to slice through the rope – he had no intention of letting Marler see the knife sheathed and strapped to his right leg. Opening the neck of the sack, he emptied the sand and rocks on the ground. Then he held out the sack with six punctured holes and the rope screwed up inside. 'You have the can of petrol?'

'At the back of the boot under a pile of rags.'

'Take this sack to the base of the quarry and burn it. I'll collect the bullets…'

'Burn it yourself.' Marler fetched the can, handed it to him. 'I'll find the bullets. You're not my boss, I'm not your servant.'

Klein tightened his lips, accepted the can and walked to the wall of the quarry. Marler searched the ground, picking up the slugs until he'd found all six. Walking to the fringe of the quarry, he hurled each bullet deep into the undergrowth, varying direction for each throw.

The sack flared in the distance, a brief incandescence of red flame which settled down into a coil of smoke. Marler watched Klein using the shovel to spread sand and stones over the relics, then crawled under the car to attach the telescopic sight with adhesive tape. Klein was looking down at him when he crawled out.

'What are you doing?' he demanded. 'I told you, I'm driving the Citroen back to Paris. You have the papers I need to hand in the vehicle?'

'Waiting for you on the driving seat. The rifle is in the back in full view. You said they hunted boar round here. But it is eighty kilometres back to the turn-off to Bouillon. I checked the odometer. If a patrol car stops us, the rifle is OK. Shooting country. The infra-red sight they might wonder about. I'll remove it when we're near Bouillon. You know, Klein, you must watch your security. And the car was hired in my name. How do you handle that?'

'I say you've been taken ill. If they get their car back and the balance of payment they're happy.'

'Which is more than I'll be until I get my advance – a million francs.'

Klein put on a pair of chamois gloves, reached into his pocket, handed Marler an envelope. 'A bearer bond – for one million. It's as good as cash, easier to carry. Plus something extra for expenses.'

Marler made sure the rifle was securely tucked behind his suitcase on the rear seat, climbed behind the wheel and drove back the way they had come.

'I would like some idea of what you have planned,' he remarked.

'For the money you're getting you should appreciate how much security is involved.' Klein decided it was time he asserted himself. 'And what would you have done if I'd decided that you were not the man I needed and driven off?'

'Oh, simple. I'd have put a bullet through your head.'

Tweed sat in the large, high-ceilinged living-room on the first floor of the house in Eaton Square. Lady Windermere had placed him on a low couch while she occupied a Regency high-backed wooden chair, which meant she looked down on him.

'Lara is in some trouble, I presume? Otherwise you wouldn't be bothering me.'

'Why do you presume that?' Tweed asked.

She was a tall thin woman of about fifty, her face was long and thin-lipped, her nose aristocratic, her manner arrogant, her tone that of someone addressing the lower orders. She was smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder.

'Well, is she or isn't she? You must realize this is all a great nuisance. My son, Robin – by my previous marriage – is getting married soon. Can you imagine the number of important things I have to attend to?'

'Supposing I told you Lara could be in some danger?'

'If she's got herself into some silly scrape she'll jolly well have to get herself out of it. At the moment, Mr… Tweed, isn't it?… Robin's marriage takes precedence over everything. He's marrying a most suitable girl who will, in due course, provide a son and heir to carry on the line.'

'I see.' For a moment Tweed was stunned. He had heard of women like this. In certain mannerisms Lady Windermere reminded him of his own wife, now living it up with a Greek shipping magnate in Brazil. 'I don't think I've made myself very clear,' he persisted. 'It's just possible that in all innocence your daughter…"

' Step -daughter. She came with Rolly. She was wished on me…'

'But you knew that when you married your present husband.'

'Mr Tweed, I regard that as a piece of impertinence which I'm not prepared to overlook.'

'I regard it as a fact of life,' Tweed said mildly.

'And innocence has nothing to do with Lara. She goes her own disgusting way, mixing with the wrong sort of people. Is it any wonder she's got herself into trouble. Is she pregnant, by the way? I might as well know.'