Where was she? She wouldn’t just leave. That didn’t seem right. Did something spook her?
Whatever had happened, there was nothing for Manville to do but wait here. Wherever Kim had gone, she would certainly come back to this spot to find him.
There was an empty table in the second row. He took it, waited a couple of minutes for the waiter to arrive, ordered a cappuccino, then looked off to the right, the long way down the Mall. All those bobbing heads, all those people, in random movement, no rhythm, no pattern. Would Kim suddenly appear among them?
Movement made him turn his head, and there was now somebody seated next to him. He was in his forties, heavyset, a bruiser with a large round head, thick bone above his eyebrows, a broken nose. Manville had never seen him before, but he knew at once that this man was connected to the killers on the ship. And that something bad had happened to Kim.
The man leaned forward, as though he wanted to deliver a secret. “George Manville,” he said.
Manville looked carefully at him. The man’s large bony hands rested on the table, empty. He didn’t act threatening, he was just there. “Yes,” Manville said.
The man nodded. “If you look out there,” he said, his voice raspy but soft, his accent showing him to be a local, “you’ll see a fella that isn’t walking. He’s looking at you. He’s got his hands in the pockets of kind of a big raincoat.”
Manville looked. “I see him.” It was another stranger, cut from the same cloth as this one.
The man said, “If I stand up and walk away from this table, and you don’t stand up and follow me, that bloke’s gonna take a machine pistol out of his pocket and blow your head off. And probably a few other heads around here, too. He’s got rotten aim.”
Manville said, “Where’s Kim?”
The man smiled. “You wanna talk to her? Come along.”
“She’s all right?”
“Sure,” the man said. “Just a little out of breath, that’s all.”
Manville had no idea what he meant by that, except that Kim must still alive. “I’ll go with you,” he said.
“I thought that’s what you were gonna decide,” the man said, and patted the table. “Leave some loot for the waiter, there’s a good chap.”
Manville did as he was told, and the man stood and walked away, without a backward glance. Manville got to his feet and followed, aware of the other man trailing along behind.
Down at the end of the Mall, on the corner with George Street, stopped illegally at the curb was a large black Daimler limousine. The man ahead of Manville walked directly to it and opened the curbside rear door. “Get in,” he said.
Manville did, and the man followed him, as Manville saw, seated in the rear of the limo, the leader of the killers from the ship. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man with the machine pistol get in the front, next to a liveried chauffeur.
Manville was in the middle of the rear seat, the leader to his left, the other man to his right. Kim wasn’t here.
The chauffeur started the Daimler purring away from the curb, and the leader smiled at Manville’s profile, not in a friendly way. “And now,” he said, “the rematch.”
9
Morgan Pallifer liked the way things were going. He was closer to Richard Curtis, more important to Curtis, than he had ever been. He had the use of this nice Daimler belonging to Curtis, that even came with a chauffeur hired by Curtis, who knew to do what he was told and keep his mouth shut. He had a nice wad of cash from Curtis, enough to keep him going for months, with more to come, a lot more. And now, three or four days ahead of schedule, he had his hands on George Manville.
Oh, he would have gotten Manville anyway, that wasn’t a problem. Curtis’s people were watching the banks, and no later than Monday he’d have known where Manville and the girl were hiding out. He’d still know, come Monday, and the way things were, he’d probably find the girl there. She’d lost Pallifer and his new pals, that was true, but she’d also lost Manville, and what else would she do but go back to whatever mouse hole they’d been hiding in, to wait for her protector to return? Where else could she go? Nowhere. So she’d most likely still be there, wherever it was, hoping for the best, when Pallifer and his friends dropped by to scoop her up on Monday.
But for now, he had the more important one, he had Manville. Curtis had wanted Manville alive, at least temporarily, at least if it wouldn’t be too much trouble; the girl he simply wanted gotten rid of, so that could happen at any time. Curtis would be very pleased to know that Manville was already in their hands.
Pallifer was pleased, too. The events on the Mallory still rankled. He and Arn had had to finish off Bardo and Frank, both wounded by Manville. He’d told Curtis that it was Manville who’d killed them, because you never tell anybody you did some killing, but in fact Manville had left the two of them alive but useless. Pallifer couldn’t carry them, couldn’t nurse them, couldn’t fix Frank’s broken bones or dig that bullet out of Bardo. He had no more use for them, so what could he do but drop them into the sea, once that miserable Chink captain came slinking down to see what was what and finally agreed to untie him and Arn?
Which was why he’d had to go around among people he knew, people he’d been connected with in the past, to find new partners. Arn had got spooked out there on the Mallory, and didn’t want any more of this job, so he was out, and these new fellas were in. Steve on the other side of Manville, and Raf up front. Pallifer had already worked with both of them more than once, and knew he could count on them.
And now, after he brought them aboard, the job was turning out so simple and easy, he barely needed them at all. Already he had Manville, and the girl was such a piece of cake he could almost send a cabdriver to pick her up. In fact, maybe that was the thing to do. Make Manville write a note, send it with a cabby, pop the girl in privacy and comfort, at Pallifer’s leisure.
Well, that was the pleasure for next week. For now, as the chauffeur purred them out of downtown, skirting Albert Park, heading out Musgrave Road to leave Brisbane toward the west, Pallifer reached forward to the black leather pouch mounted on the side panel behind the door, took out the cellphone, and called Richard Curtis at the hotel. He got a secretary, who said Curtis was out. “Tell him it’s Morgan,” Pallifer said. “Tell him I took early delivery on that package he wanted. I’m bringing it out to the ranch.”
“He’ll know what this is about?”
“Oh, yes,” Pallifer said, and winked at the stolid-faced Manville next to him on the wide seat. “He’ll be happy at the news,” he assured the secretary, and broke the connection, and twisted around a bit more to look at Manville head on. “Give me your ear, you,” he said.
Manville didn’t react at all, so Pallifer poked him in the chest with a hard finger. “And give me your eye, too, while you’re at it,” he said.
Now Manville did look at him, and once again Pallifer was startled for just a second by how cold and deadly those eyes could look. But then he caught himself, he reminded himself who was in charge here now, and he grinned into those eyes as he said, “I’m about to tell you what’s happening here.”
Manville said, “Where’s Kim?”
“Oh, Kim is it? The hero’s been getting his reward, has he? Hear that, Steve? The hero’s been getting his reward.”