Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

Modesty said, "We're still level. Would you like another dozen each?"

He halfsmiled and shook his head. "I might find it more interesting if the clays could hit back."

"Ah. Big white bwana prefer charging lion?"

He shrugged. "Just something that adds a little spice to the game."

She looked towards the cottage. "Then let's go. You won't find much in Wiltshire to give you an interesting hunt."

He surveyed her with raised eyebrows. "No?"

She did not react, and they moved away together in silence.

Unseen beyond a tall hedge, a car was halted on the road bordering the pasture. A driver sat at the wheel, and Sir Gerald Tarrant stood by a fivebarred gate that was flanked on each side by the hedge. Again he was using binoculars, focusing on the man and woman moving towards the cottage from the clay pigeon shoot. He adjusted the focus, studied the two faces and muttered an oath. Lowering the glasses he returned to the car and got in the back. The chauffeur said, "You're not calling on the lady then, sir?"

"No. I've changed my mind." Or had it changed for me, he thought unhappily. "Back to London, Reilly."

As Modesty and Crichton reached the stables and outbuildings she said, "I'll fix an early lunch before we leave for town."

Crichton said pleasantly, "Fine. It'll save having to stop on the way." When they came to the cottage he left her to go to his car, opened the boot and put his twelvebore in its case. Closing the boot, he glanced towards the cottage to check that she had gone in, then opened the offside front door and leaned across to run the palm of his hand over the surface of the passenger seat. Reaching under the dashboard he threw a small switch, then pressed a button set in the fascia. A fine needle sprang up through a minute hole in one of the leather seams, ejected a clear liquid, then vanished. Crichton wiped the seat dry with a clean rag, closed the door and walked towards the cottage.

As he entered by the kitchen door he made an effort to maintain an amiable demeanour and avoid showing anger at her Big White Bwana remark. It had affronted Paul Crichton's macho selfimage and he would very much have enjoyed hitting her, but took comfort in the reflection that a far more permanent and profitable revenge lay ahead.

Three hours later Sir Gerald Tarrant sat at his desk looking at two photographs lying side by side, one of a man, the other of an attractive young woman. His assistant, Fraser, stood watching him, a file under his arm. Fraser was a small vinegary man in his early fifties who had two personas, a false one as an ingratiating wimp, a true one as a casehardened cynic. The combination had made him a very dangerous operative during his active years as an agent in the field. At this moment he was in his second persona, gazing sourly at his chief.

"So you went down there and didn't see Modesty Blaise after all?" he said.

"Only at a distance. I changed my mind about speaking to her, Jack. Now observe a curious fact." Tarrant touched one of the photographs. "We know that Paul Crichton has had recent contact with the elusive Bellman. We also know that Miss Sandra Thorne, as she now calls herself, has a connection with Bellman going back many years. And at this moment Crichton is squiring Modesty Blaise and Miss Thorne is being squired by Willie Garvin."

Fraser grunted assent. "Which means?"

"Which means our friends Modesty and Willie don't know it, but they're in trouble. Bellman is after them for some reason. He's setting them up."

Fraser sniffed. "You're suggesting we warn them?"

Tarrant kept his eyes on the photographs. "For anybody with an ounce of decency and selfrespect it's the only course." He looked up and shook his head irritably. "I wish we could afford such luxuries, but I want Bellman. If he's going for our friends Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin he might well run into problems that force him into the open. Have a close watch kept on them, Jack. Put it in hand right away."

"Will do." Fraser moved to the door leading into his own office. "If it's not too late," he added.

Tarrant put the photographs aside, wishing he didn't dislike himself so much at this moment. "There's always that possibility," he said bleakly. "In which case we can only hope they survive Bellman's attentions."

Fraser opened his door. "That's their problem."

Next morning found Tarrant in the foyer of a penthouse overlooking Hyde Park, speaking to Modesty Blaise's houseboy, Weng, who was also her chef and chauffeur. It was Tarrant's opinion that the young oriental could well have become a captain of industry had he so wished, and had he not so clearly preferred to remain in service to his highly unusual employer who trusted him with many large and demanding responsibilities.

"No, Sir Gerald," Weng was saying politely, "Miss Blaise was due home last night but did not arrive. May I take your hat and umbrella, sir? Miss Blaise would wish me to offer you coffee, tea, or perhaps—"

"No, no thank you," Tarrant broke in hastily. "Have you rung her at the cottage?"

"Yes, but she is not there, sir. I have also rung Mr Garvin, but it seems he did not return home to The Treadmill last night, as expected."

"I see." Tarrant hesitated. "Iumthink they may have some trouble on their hands, Weng."

"So I assumed, sir. It is not the first time. I shall wait, and listen out."

"Listen out?"

"We have radio communication here, sir."

Tarrant said unhappily, "I feel their chances of calling you on it may be rather slight."

"It is the routine laid down by Miss Blaise, sir."

Tarrant gazed at the houseboy with some annoyance. "You don't seem particularly worried, Weng."

A bland, expressionless look. "Certainly I am worried, Sir Gerald, but I am also inscrutable. I do not allow my manner or my expression to reveal that I believe you have dropped them in it again."

Tarrant stared, then nodded and put on his hat, turning to the private lift which would carry him down to the reception hall of the block. "How considerate of you, Weng," he said.

Willie Garvin opened his eyes warily, then lifted hands to his aching head, discovering by so doing that his wrists were in handcuffs. Slowly he sat up on the bunk where he had been lying. Looking down at his much rumpled clothes he noted that he was still wearing the dress shirt and dinner jacket he had been wearing when he called to take Sandra Thorne to a charity film premiere followed by a dinner and dance. He had a feeling that this had been quite a long time ago now.

As the muzziness in his head began to clear he realised that the room was rising and falling very gently. Not a room, then, but a small cabin, dimly lit and well below luxury class. On first sitting up he had registered that Modesty Blaise lay sprawled on her back on another bunk barely an arm's length away across the cabin. She wore a grey skirt with a tartan shirt under a soft leather jerkin, flat shoes and dark tights. In view of his own situation Willie felt little surprise at seeing her. Clearly they were jointly in trouble. Sandra Thorne had arranged his own transfer to wherever he was now, but he had no idea who had done the same for Modesty.

Quietly he got to his feet and thumbed open one of her eyelids. He checked her breathing, felt her pulse, straightened the skirt rucked at her thighs, then looked about him. The cabin contained a small washbasin, lockers, a door and a porthole. He moved to the porthole and looked out across a calm grey sea. It was a little before dawn, he judged, with a thin overcast of broken cloud. He could make out land no more than a few hundred yards from the anchored ship. No lights gleamed from the shore, and the line of land seemed to terminate when he peered to the right. An island, perhaps.