Alistair MacLean - Fear is the Key

A far from subtle change had taken place in the atmosphere since we'd left. The girl was still sitting on a stool by the fire, head bent and the flickering light gleaming off her wheat-coloured braids, but Vyland and the general seemed easy and relaxed and confident and the latter was even smiling. A couple of newspapers were lying on the library table and I wondered sourly if those, with their big black banner headlines "Wanted Killer Slays Constable, Wounds Sheriff "and the far from flattering pictures of myself had anything to do with their confidence. To emphasise the change in atmosphere, a footman came in with a tray of glasses, decanter and soda siphon. He was a young man, but moved with a peculiarly stiff leaden-footed gait and he laid the tray down on the table with so laborious a difficulty that you could almost hear his joints creak. His colour didn't look too good either. I looked away, glanced at him again and then indifferently away once more, hoping that the knowledge of what I suddenly knew didn't show in my face.

They'd read all the right books on etiquette; the footman and the butler knew exactly what to do. The footman brought in the drinks, the butler carried them around. He gave a sherry to the girl, whisky to each of the four men — Hophead was pointedly bypassed — and planted himself in front of me. My gaze travelled from his hairy wrists to his broken nose to the general in the background. The general nodded, so I looked back at the silver tray again. Pride said no, the magnificent aroma of the amber liquid that had been poured from that triangular dimpled bottle said yes, but pride carried the heavy handicap of my hunger, soaked clothes and the beating I'd just had and the aroma won looking round. I took the glass and eyed the general over the rim. "A last drink for the condemned man, eh, General? "

"Not condemned yet." He lifted his glass. "Your health, Talbot."

"Very witty," I sneered. "What do they do in the state of Florida, General? Strap you over a cyanide bucket or just fry you in the hot seat?"

"Your health," he repeated. "You're not condemned, maybe you'll never be condemned. I have a proposition to put before you, Talbot."

I lowered myself carefully into a chair. Valentino's boot must have mangled up one of the nerves in my leg, a thigh muscle was jumping uncontrollably. I waved at the papers lying on the library table.

"I take it you've read those, General. I take it you know all about what happened to-day, all about my record. What kind of proposition can a man like you possibly have to put to a man like me?"

"A very attractive one." I imagined I saw a touch of red touch the high cheekbones but he spoke steadily enough. "In exchange for a little service I wish you to perform for me I offer you your life."

"A fair offer. And the nature of this little service, General?"

"I am not at liberty to tell you at present. In about, perhaps — thirty-six hours, you would say, Vyland?"

"We should hear by then," Vyland agreed. He was less and less like an engineer every time I looked at him. He took a puff at his Corona and looked at me. "You agree to the general's proposition, then?"

"Don't be silly. What else can I do? And after the job, whatever it is?"

"You will be provided with papers and passport and sent to a certain South American country where you will have nothing to fear," the general answered. "I have the connections." Like hell I would be given papers and a trip to South America: I would be given a pair of concrete socks and a vertical trip to the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.

"And if I don't agree, then of course—"

"If you don't agree then they will all be overcome by a high sense of civic responsibility and turn you over to the cops," Jablonsky interrupted sardonically. "The whole setup stinks to high heaven. Why should the general want you? — he can hire practically any man in the nation. Why, especially, should he hire a killer on the lam? What earthly use can you be to him? Why should he help a wanted murderer to evade justice?" He sipped his drink thoughtfully. "General Blair Ruthven, the moral pillar of New England society, best-known and highest-minded do-gooder after the Rockefellers. It stinks. You're paddling in some dark and dirty water, General. Very dark, very dirty. And paddling right up to your neck. Lord knows what stakes you must be playing for. They must be fantastic." He shook Ms head. "This I would never have believed."

"I have never willingly or knowingly done a dishonest thing in my life," the general said steadily.

"Jeez!" Jablonsky ejaculated. For a few seconds he was silent, then said suddenly: "Well, thanks for the drink, General. Don't forget to sup with a long spoon. I'll take my hat and my cheque and be on my way. The Jablonsky retirement fund is in your debt."

I didn't see who made the signal. Probably it came from Vyland. Again I didn't see how the gun got into Royale's hand. But I saw it there. So did Jablonsky. It was a tiny gun, a very flat automatic with a snub barrel, even smaller than the Liliput the sheriff had taken from me. But Royale probably had the eye and the aim of a squirrel-hunter, and it was all he needed: a great big hole in the heart from a heavy Colt makes you no deader than a tiny little hole from a .22.

Jablonsky looked thoughtfully at the gun. "You would rather I stayed, General?"

"Put that damn gun away," the general snapped. "Jablonksy's on our side. At least, I hope he's going to be. Yes, I'd rather you stayed. But no one's going to make you if you don't want to."

"And what's going to make me want to?" Jablonsky inquired of the company at large. "Could it be that the general, who has never willingly done a dishonest thing in his life, as planning to hold up payment on that cheque? Or maybe just planning to tear it up altogether?"

It didn't need the general's suddenly averted eyes to confirm Jablonsky's guess. Vyland cut in smoothly: "It'll only be for two days, Jablonsky, three at the most. After all, you are getting a great deal of money for very little. All we're asking you to do is to ride herd on Talbot here until he's done what we want him to do."

Jablonsky nodded slowly. "I see. Royale here wouldn't stoop to bodyguarding — he takes care of people in a rather more permanent way. The thug out in the passage there, the butler, our little friend Larry here — Talbot could eat 'em all before breakfast. You must need Talbot pretty badly, eh?"

"We require him," Vyland said smoothly. "And from what we've learnt from Miss Ruthven — and from what Royale knows of you — you can hold him. And your money's safe."

"Uh-huh. And tell me, am I a prisoner looking after a prisoner, or am I free to come and go?"

"You heard what the general said," Vyland answered. "You're a free agent. But if you do go out make sure he's locked up or tied so that he can't break for it."

"Seventy thousand bucks worth of guarding, eh?" Jablonsky said grimly. "He's safe as the gold in Fort Knox." I caught Royale and Vyland exchanging a brief flicker of a glance as Jablonsky went on: "But I'm kind of worried about that seventy thousand. I mean, if someone finds out Talbot is here, I won't get the seventy thousand. All I'll get, with my record, is ten years for obstructing the course of justice and giving aid and comfort to a wanted murderer." He looked speculatively at Vyland and the general and went on softly: "What guarantee have I that no one in this house will talk?"

"No one will talk," Vyland said flatly.

"The chauffeur lives in the lodge, doesn't he?" Jablonsky said obliquely.

"Yes, he does." Vyland spoke softly, thoughtfully. "It might be a good idea to get rid of—"

"No!" the girl interrupted violently. She'd jumped to her feet, fists clenched by her sides.

"Under no circumstances," General Ruthven said quietly. "Kennedy remains. We are too much in his debt."