Something cold clutched at Mike’s insides. He remembered honest brown eyes under curled lashes, heard the soft voice saying, “We have so little time.” He forgot his act and muttered stupidly, “Norah…dead?…How?”
The major drank again, watching him. At last he said: “After she left you she was in…an accident.”
“I don’t believe it. It’s impossible.”
He spread his hands. “That’s how it goes, old man…” He walked over to the desk and unlocked a drawer. “Somebody always draws the last card.” He opened the drawer and rested his hand inside. “But before she died,” he continued more slowly, “she handed you a sealed packet.”
“So?”
His hand came up fast, gripping a 9mm Luger pistol. “So I want it,” he snapped.
The sight of the gun acted like a cold shower. Mike came out of his trance.
“Put that thing away,” he said. “It doesn’t scare me. I’m damned if I know what you’re talking about, anyway. Norah gave me no packet.”
“She gave it to you—sometime during the night. Hand it over quickly, please.”
Mike kept his eyes on the gun pointed unwaveringly at his middle. He said, “Don’t be childish. Suppose you squirt that thing—how do you expect to get away with it? The hotel clerk and the switchboard girl know you phoned me this morning, and I left your number with the desk when I started out. Even a country copper couldn’t fail to add it up if I disappear.”
“You’re not going to disappear,” said the major. “I was explaining the mechanism of the pistol to you and forgot the shell in the chamber. Don’t you ever read the inquest reports? I can only hope that in your case the necessity for such an interesting ceremony will not arise.”
Mike forced a grin. “You’ve got it all figured out, but it won’t get you anyplace. The package is tucked away safely, miles from here.”
“You underrate my intelligence. You were followed all morning and your room was searched as soon as you had left to come here. The package is not there, and since you have not been near a post office you must have it with you. For the last time, hand it over.”
Mike picked up his glass of beer. “You’ve been seeing too many movies and they’ve gone to your head. For some reason you saw fit to put a tail on Norah and me and you seem to be pretty well acquainted with our movements. But about the packet you’re all wet. Well, if it amuses you, all right. But you’ve played cops and robbers with me long enough. Now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to finish this drink and then I’m going to walk out of here. And if I’ve got the packet—as you seem to think—it goes out with me…”
He raised the glass and drank. His nonchalance would have delighted a charm-school instructress. It had the reverse effect on the major. He swung from behind the desk and came at him, the gun stuck out threateningly.
That was what Mike had played for. As Garbridge came within range he jerked the glass straight into his face. The major’s right hand went up instinctively, and in the same instant Mike kicked him right where it would do the most good. Garbridge screamed, dropped the Luger and fell to the carpet, moaning. His face was grayer than his hair. In his football days Mike had been known as a useful place-kicker. And he wanted that gun.
Footsteps pounded across the hall and Charles crashed through the door. He looked down at his boss and cursed.
Mike beckoned him with the Luger. “Get those hands up and stand by the wall,” he ordered. “Now listen:
“I’m a peaceful kind of guy, and when a man invites me to have a drink I don’t expect him to pump lead into me by way of an appetizer. It upsets my digestion, and when that happens I tend to get more than a little restive. I will be glad if you will explain that to the major when he is in a mood to listen.
“You can tell him, too, that something stinks around this joint. I don’t know what it is, but I intend to find out.”
Charles scowled.
“Fine!” Mike scowled back, just to show him he had no monopoly. “One last point. Your boss tells me a friend of mine died today. It occurs to me that maybe she was murdered.” The butler’s piggy eyes flickered. “It occurs to me further,” Mike went on, “that you may have had a hand in it. If that proves to be the case I want you to know that I intend to blast hell out of you with nice filed bullets out of this self-same gun. You’ll need a bathtub to plug the hole.”
“So ’elp me God…”
“I hope so,” Mike agreed piously. “Meanwhile, turn your face to the wall.”
Charles shuffled around apprehensively and Mike brought the barrel of the Luger sharply down on his skull. He crumpled without a murmur.
Mike tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers, went into the hall and locked the library door on the outside.
He was not frightened but he was far from happy. He could see that as soon as he left the Rodehus he was in a spot. He had ruined the major for horseback riding for quite some time and assaulted his butler with a lethal weapon for which he had no permit. Garbridge had only to telephone the local police and Mike would have plenty of explaining to do. He could not imagine any rural policeman swallowing the story he had to tell, and he had no witnesses.
On top of mayhem and battery and carrying concealed weapons he still had that package, which might contain anything from heroin to a package of safety pins. Judging from the major’s anxiety to get his fingers on it, he did not think it would turn out to be the latter. He listened. There was no sign of movement in the house. If the major had other servants they had obviously been trained to mind their own business. He took out the girl’s parting gift, broke the seals and tore off the paper, revealing a plain brown cardboard box and a folded note.
He looked in the box first. All it contained was an unopened pack of Danish cigarettes. He tipped it into his palm and examined it closely. It was a standard brand and the cellophane wrapper was intact. He swore softly and turned his attention to the note.
That gave him another shock. It was from Norah Bland and it was addressed to him.
Mike,
If you read this it means that I haven’t shown up to collect the enclosed which, when we get out of here, I’m going to ask you to hold for me. Don’t fool with the cigarettes. Take them personally to U.N.C.L.E. offices, New York—and don’t let a soul know you have them. If you’re broke, borrow transportation. But for God’s sake don’t lose a minute. Get going, Mike. And good luck.
Mike’s eyes were giving him trouble by the time he had finished reading. It began to look as if Norah had anticipated becoming a casualty. He remembered the sadness that had been in her eyes even while he had held her close in the taxi.
He wondered when she had found time to write the note. He was fairly certain the doorman in the Linden Tree had slipped the package to her. Then he remembered that before leaving the club she had gone to powder her nose and had taken more time than had seemed necessary.
He stood for a minute, holding the note and thinking. Then he stuffed note and box back into his pocket, listened briefly for sounds beyond the library door, and made for the main exit.
Darkness had fallen and he knew he would have considerable difficulty in finding his way back to the highway. He cut diagonally across the lawn and onto the shrub-lined lower drive. It was comparatively easy going there. The problem would be to find the path that led through the beech wood. He wished he had a pocket flashlight
The entrance gates were still open. As he passed through them he heard voices, and, turning briefly, he saw lights somewhere on the park land. Evidently the major had recovered from his indisposition.
The first fringe of beeches loomed ahead. Mike plunged in among the great trees, running blindly. He had no hope now of finding the path; his one thought was to put as much distance as he could between himself and his pursuers. He had no illusion about what would happen if he fell into the major’s hands again.