John Creasey - Send Superintendent West

Roger went to him.

“You all ready, Roger?”

Roger said: “Whenever you like.” He hesitated, looking straight into Marino’s eyes. Then he said very carefully: “Tony, I know I’ve a wife and two sons waiting for me in England. I know the risks. I still want to go alone. Give me the chance. In half an hour you can come and get me.”

Did Marino know exactly what he meant? Did Marino know that he was saying that whatever Lissa felt about him, there was a call from England that he would never be able to resist? He wished he could guess what was passing through the maimed man’s mind. Whatever it was took a long time.

Then Marino said abruptly: “Half an hour. All right. But listen, Roger. In half an hour, a light bomber will fly over that farmhouse and drop a bomb in the garden. It will shake them so badly they won’t have any fight left, and my men will be in the house before the echoes have died away. Do you understand?”

“Nice work,” Roger said.

Tell him how to get there, Stan,” Marino said to his driver.

The directions were easy — he must continue along this road from Trenton for a mile and a quarter, then take the first turning to the left on to a dirt road which dropped down towards a creek, swinging left again before the creek, uphill, with bush on either side, then down again to the farm-house and the outbuildings. Roger followed the route carefully, and soon the Chevrolet was swaying along the rough road towards the rippling stream. At the brow of a hill he looked down over the farm, a big white weatherboard building, emerging from fruit trees and bushes.

Nothing, no one moved.

Approaching the house, he passed a cow-byre. Beyond it, pigs were rooting and Roger wrinkled his nose at the stench. A few hens scratched, one of them close to the front door, which had once been painted white but was now dirty, the paint peeling. Mud had splashed up in the rain, more than two feet from the ground. Roger sat in the car for a few seconds, to give anyone inside time to know that he was there and to make sure that he was alone. Then he got out and stood upright, looking round. He knew that eyes were turned towards him, that each window threatened, but nothing happened. He walked stiffly down two cement steps to the door, and banged on it

Still nothing happened.

He clenched his fist and banged again, and when no one answered, he turned the handle and pushed the door. It opened. Would Gissing leave it unfastened? Would he let him walk in, like this? Were the watching eyes and the menacing demons all in his imagination? Was the house empty, and the Shawn child gone?

He stepped straight into a low-ceilinged room. The windows were small, and the light poor. The room was crowded with old furniture, and a spinning-wheel stood in one window with a chair drawn up beside it, as if some old woman had been working there only a few minutes ago.

Doors led to the right and left. He went towards that on the left, with his hands in sight, and his face clear of expression, all his fears held on a tight leash. He was prepared for anything — even for the voice which came from behind him.

“Don’t move,” a man said.

24

TERMS

He heard footsteps behind him, and he steeled himself for whatever would come next. For a moment he heard heavy breathing, as hands touched his sides and ran over his body, feeling for guns in pockets or in a shoulder-holster. He carried none. The breathing was hot on the back of his neck, and then coolness followed as the man backed away.

“Okay, just move forward, up them two steps.”

These steps led into a dining-room, a room almost as crowded with furniture as the first He had been here for five minutes, and Marino wouldn’t give him a second beyond his half hour.

“Turn right, and up the stairs,” the unseen man ordered. It sounded like McMahon.

The stairs led off a small hall, a flight of narrow, steep steps covered with carpet. He steadied himself by the handrail. The stairs creaked, and one tread sagged badly.

“Room on the right.”

He turned right

He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. Ricky lay on a bed in a corner of a narrow room, exactly as he had been at Webster’s house — only more frightened, much more frightened. But at least he was alive.

Roger paused, steadied, then went into the room. He forced himself to smile without strain, raised a hand to the boy, and spoke in a voice that surprised him by its calmness.

“Hallo, Ricky. Glad to see you again.”

The child lay staring, without moving a muscle, but his eyes, his father’s eyes, seemed to burn as savagely as his father’s, with an animal fear.

“We’ll soon have you free,” Roger said.

“That’s right,” Gissing said. “You will.”

He was behind Roger, but the voice was unmistakable, he was here in person.

“You will soon have him free,” Gissing said. “It will cost you something, that’s all. It will cost Uncle Sam half a million dollars. It’s cheap at the price. They’ll have the kid’s father back as well as the kid. Half a million dollars, West, I’ll settle for that. Turn round.”

• • •

Roger turned slowly.

Half a million dollars. It was only a set of figures, and it meant just one thing: that Gissing was prepared to come to terms. There was a chance to fight for Ricky’s life.

Gissing stood in the doorway. Jaybird leaned against the wall, his mouth working as he chewed, a gun held casually in his big right hand. He seemed to look at Roger through his lashes.

Gissing wore exactly the same clothes and the same cotton gloves. A bruise on his right cheek showed red and swollen, even in the poor light. He held his head up, the narrow, pointed chin thrust forward, and he looked as full of confidence as he had been at Webster’s house.

“You heard me,” he said.

“Only half a million,” Roger said dryly. “You’ve had a hundred thousand from Shawn. Isn’t that enough?”

“Half a million,” Gissing repeated, “or I kill the kid and hang his body out of the window. I know Marino’s got his men round the house, Pullinger didn’t fool him. I know what happened on the road, I’ve had a telephone message. I know Marino has given you a chance to save the kid, and you think you’re so smart that you can do it, but only one thing can do it, West. Half a million dollars.” He opened his thin mouth and laughed in the back of his throat. “I’m holding up Uncle Sam now, Shawn hasn’t got enough for me. Can’t you see the joke?”

Roger didn’t speak.

Gissing changed his tone. “We won’t waste time.” He looked past Roger to the child, could see the terrified eyes, and seemed to wring sadistic satisfaction out of repeating: “If Marino doesn’t persuade Uncle Sam to pay, I’ll hang the kid out of the window, by the neck. Once that happens Marino can say goodbye to Shawn. It depends how badly he needs the man. Go and tell him, West. You can be useful that way. You ought to be dead!”

“Why did you leave me alive?”

“Jaybird thought I’d finished you off. I thought he had. But it was too late at Webster’s place.” How clearly that betrayed the panic they had been in. Even now, Roger sweated at the hair’s breadth between life and death. “Tell Marino something else,” Gissing went on. “If he moves his men in, he can write the kid and Shawn off. The only chance he’s got is to withdraw the guard and come to terms. There isn’t any other way.”

Roger said: “And I’m to tell him that?”

“You can go back as free as you came, and tell him just that.” Gissing laughed at the back of his throat again. “You came to find out the terms, didn’t you, West? Now you know. Marino will play because he can’t afford to lose Shawn. We needn’t waste any more time.”