Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

As the Sergeant bent to his task Lomax turned to Modesty and Willie and went on solemnly. "It's quite possible that this rifle has been used for assassination elsewhere. If so it can be identified by bullets taken from the bodies of any previous victims."

Willie Garvin said, "Gosh! Really?" and Lomax had a brief choking fit before he could speak again.

"I hope," he said, looking at Modesty, "I hope this hasn't been too much of a shock for you, Miss?"

"No, I–I'll be all right," Modesty said bravely. "Mr Garvin will see me home."

Lomax nodded and turned away, standing in silence for a few moments with clenched jaws. He relaxed and said to Baker as he rose from handcuffing the unconscious man, "Get that gear back to the car, Sergeant, then radio for an ambulance. I'll wait here."

"Right, sir." Baker gathered up the sheetwrapped rifle and box very carefully and moved off towards the footpath. When he had disappeared into the woods, Lomax turned and said quietly, "Thanks very much. It's a particular pleasure for me to meet you, and I'm sure you'll know why."

Modesty smiled. "I hope you won't feel you've wasted some well earned leave."

"Oh God, no!" Lomax looked down at Skendi, who was beginning to stir and make faint sounds. "It's outrageous, but I'll get the credit for this. I understand there's been some sort of advance consultation at high level in anticipation of Skendi being nailed, and the American Embassy have extradition papers already prepared. This coldblooded bastard is either going to spend the next ninetynine years in stir, or he'll get the hotseat."

"Needle," said Willie. "It's New York State."

Lomax nodded. "That'll do nicely." He looked at Modesty. "May I call later officially to take statements confirming what you've said to me and to Sergeant Baker?"

"Yes, of course, Mr Lomax. We're very grateful for your help. Come about eight o'clock and join us for dinner if you're free."

Lomax laughed. "The name's Harry," he said. "And thanks, I'm free all right."

It was midafternoon six days later when an old man came into reception at the penthouse block and spoke haltingly to the porter. Eight floors above, Modesty Blaise was in her lapidary workroom, cutting en cabochon one of two large rough emeralds Willie Garvin had last year dug from the emeraldbearing shale of abandoned mines in Colombia, working among the guaqueros, treasureseekers who would have slit a dozen throats to lay hands on his find.

As she worked she recalled with a smile his falsely contrite air as she trounced him for taking such a risk. The fact was that Willie enjoyed bringing her unusual presents and would do so whenever an idea seized him. This afternoon Weng was offduty, playing bridge at a club where the stakes were high and where he invariably made several thousand a year. When the housephone rang she switched off the slitting saw, laid down the dopstick with the emerald cemented to its head, and moved from her chair to pick up the phone.

"Yes, George?"

The porter said, "I've got a foreign gentleman here who wants to see you, Miss Blaise. Says his name is Alex something, I couldn't quite get the surname."

She was taken aback. "Is he alone?"

"Yes, Miss."

"All right, George. Put him in the lift and point out where the upbutton is, will you?"

"Certainly, Miss Blaise."

She moved to the foyer and waited by the lift gates, wondering, remembering. Alex was the key to all that had happened since the day he had found and saved her. It was he who had frustrated Salamander Four, thereby ensuring that she was alive later to deal with the thug who had savagely beaten Steve Collier, the man who unknown to her was a Salamander Four enforcer. Because she had shattered this enforcer's power they had set up another attempt to kill her. But Old Alex, unknown to himself, was the father of Sir Angus McBeal, one of the four Salamander directors, and McBeal had first destroyed his three colleagues, then warned her of the Skendi contract. And it had all begun and continued with Old Alex.

The doors opened and he stood gazing at her anxiously. He wore a beautifully cut suit with a silk shirt and tie, contrasting strangely with his weatherbeaten face and gnarled old hands.

"I do not inconvenience you, mam'selle?"

He spoke in French, and she answered in the same tongue. "Alex dear, you could never be an inconvenient visitor. Come in, come in and talk with me." She took his hands, drew him into the foyer and kissed him on each cheek. "But why are you calling me mam'selle? It was always Modesty, both on the farm and when we spoke on the telephone."

"I don't know. I think because I am afraid."

She led him down the three steps to the drawingroom and sat beside him on the chesterfield, holding his hand.

"What are you afraid of, Alex?"

He shook his head helplessly. "Of… of each day. They are kind, Modesty, very kind. And I have tried… tried hard to learn and remember and become as they would wish. But it does not march. They are unhappy because they think they fail in a duty. I am unhappy because… because I am alone always, even when we are all together. I think about the farm, the vines, the family eating together in the kitchen. I want to harness Napoleon and haul logs. I don't know what I once was, Modesty, but I know what I am now, and it is not the same. Bloody hell."

He turned his head to look at her, his old eyes desperate. "I cannot bring myself to ask them for what I truly want. It would be cruel, for they know I am of their blood and are doing all for me. But to me they are strangers. I cannot ask them, so I come to you. I have the address." He touched his breast pocket. "I have money. I walk to the station and take a train to London. I show the address to the taxi man and he brings me, and you are here, thank God. So I ask you… please take me home. Please."

She patted his hand, feeling a wave of pity and relief sweep through her. "Of course I will, Alex. You'll stay here tonight and I'll take you home tomorrow. Nobody can stop you if you want to go, but I do have to telephone your brother at once, to let him know you're safe with me."

His eyes shone with tears of joy. "Tomorrow?"

"I promise, Alex. Tomorrow. Now just sit and rest while I phone."

A minute later, on the phone in her workroom, she was saying, "Lord Sayle? This is Modesty Blaise, and I'm calling to say that Alex is safe here with me."

Mark Sayle's voice said, "Oh, thank God for that. When he went for a walk and didn't return we feared his memory was playing tricks and that he might have met with an accident."

"No, he's quite all right. But I think he's been under much greater strain than anyone realised, and I'm afraid his mental capacity could well be impaired if it continues. The fact is, he wants to go home. He's desperate to go home, to the home where he belongs. He couldn't bring himself to ask you because he says you've all been so kind and he felt it would be cruel. So he came to me, I suppose because he feels closer to me than to anyone else in the country, and I've promised to take him home tomorrow."

There was a brief silence, then Mark Sayle said quietly, "Now that it's happened I'm not surprised. We've really tried hard, you know, and Alex is a lovely chap, but… try as I may, I haven't been able to see him as the brother I grew up with. I'm sorry if that seems heartless."

So there would be no opposition, and new relief touched her as she said, "That isn't heartless, it's honest, and Alex quite simply isn't the brother you grew up with. After fifty years I don't believe there's anything left of that young man except an occasional bloody hell or wizard prang. It's heartbreaking, but there it is."

"Well… I can only say I'm very grateful to you, Miss Blaise. Do you wish me to send his clothes or any possessions? My chauffeur could bring them this evening. It's probably better for Alex if I don't try to say goodbye."