“And what answer did you come up with?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Fletcher got the idea that King had not bothered too much with the answer. As long as Leonora was there, that had been enough for him. And perhaps she had given him enough encouragement sexually to keep him on the string. And had used the same method with Denning? He wondered just how far a dedicated C.I.A. agent would be prepared to go in the line of duty, and again he felt a stab of jealousy; even though he knew now what she was, how treacherous she could be, he could still feel jealous; it was illogical, but it was a fact. And she must have been clever; keeping both King and Denning nibbling at the same bait would have required no little skill, considerable discretion. High marks for Leonora. Some girl. Some bloody girl.
The shaking of the lorry was doing Lawrence no good at all; now and then he groaned a little. Even though it was long past its zenith, the sun was still hot, and he was sweating.
“How much further is it to Denning’s house?” Fletcher asked.
“Five or six miles,” King said. “Nearer in a straight line.”
“But we don’t travel in a straight line.”
“No. Need wings for that.”
The lorry came to a halt after about half an hour. Fletcher and King stood up and looked over the side. The driver was leaning out of his cab.
“This here’s where I turn off. I got a place down there.” He pointed to a rough track branching off to the right and overhung with trees. “Be out of your way, likely.”
“Yes,” King said, “it would. We’ll get down here.”
The woman thrust her head out. “You like some refreshment? You welcome. You look like you could all use a long cool drink.”
King seemed about to refuse, but he glanced at Lawrence and must have seen how sick Lawrence was looking, and he hesitated.
“How far is it to your place?”
“Quarter of a mile,” the skinny man said. “Mebbe more. It’s outa your way.” He seemed to be trying to put them off.
“You welcome,” the woman said again.
Fletcher was not at all sure the man would have gone along with that; not all the way. But he did not contradict her.
“Well,” King said, “maybe a long cool drink wouldn’t be so bad at that.”
The woman’s head and then the man’s disappeared. King and Fletcher sat down and the lorry got under way again, bumping off the road on to the track which would have been better suited to mules than to wheeled vehicles. The lorry stayed in low gear for the rest of the way, and they could hear the springs creaking and the boards complaining, so that it seemed as though the whole thing were about to break up into its component parts. But no doubt it had done that particular run a good many times, and maybe even worse runs, and it had not broken up yet, so it could have been that it was stronger than it looked in spite of its age; and after a few minutes of this bumpy progress it came again to a halt and they were there.
It was not much in the style of Denning’s house. It was not very big; there was just the one storey; and it was built on sloping ground, so that one end had had to be propped up on stilts. It was made of rough planks that had never had a lick of paint or a plane on them from the moment when they had been sawn from the log, and the way they had warped showed that they had been used green. The roof was of corrugated-iron, rusting in places, and there was a veranda at the front end with steps leading up to it. There were some citrus trees and bananas, and patches of ground under rough cultivation, and there were half a dozen goats and some chickens scratching around.
Six children, ranging in age from maybe fourteen down to four, came running to meet the lorry, yelling with excitement and then falling suddenly silent when they caught sight of the three strangers. The man and the woman got out of the cab, and King and Fletcher helped Lawrence to get down from the back. The children stood bunched together, staring at them with wide eyes, as though they had been visitors from outer space.
Fletcher spoke to the woman. “Your family?”
She smiled proudly, nodding. “Every last one.”
“Nice,” Fletcher said. “Very nice.”
It seemed to gratify her; she really beamed this time. “You like kids?”
“I love kids,” Fletcher said.
She chuckled. “These here kids is little devils.”
“I can’t believe you mean that. They look like angels.”
The children giggled. They didn’t believe she meant it, either.
“You better come inside,” the woman said.
They all went up the steps to the veranda and into the house, the children following, crowding in the doorway. It was the living-room; the furniture was old, worn, faded; there was a sofa with the springs thrusting up under the covering material like bones under the skin of a starved and mangy horse. Lawrence sat down and leaned back with a sigh of thankfulness.
“I go get them drinks,” the woman said.
She went through a doorway into what was probably the kitchen and came back with three glasses on a tray. Fletcher took one; it was cool and it tasted like lime-juice with a dash of rum in it. Lawrence emptied his glass quickly and it seemed to do him a lot of good.
“You feel better now?” the woman asked.
Lawrence managed a grin. “Much better. You mix a good drink.”
“You like another?”
“No more, thanks. We have to be on our way.”
“No need to go yet. You better rest awhile.”
Lawrence glanced at King.
King said. “Sure. Give it a bit of time. No hurry.”
The skinny man looked as if he were wishing he had never stopped and offered them a lift; Fletcher could see that he was itching to be rid of them. Perhaps he thought that a man with a bloody bandage on his arm was not the kind to have around the place if you were looking for a quiet life. And he could have been right at that.
“Coupla hours it’ll be dark,” he said. “You figure you can make it to where you’re going in that time without transport?”
“We’re not afraid of the dark,” King said.
“Well, it’s you that’s walking it.” The skinny man turned and walked out of the house.
“Don’t need to take no notice of him,” the woman said. “He just don’t like visitors.”
“Maybe it depends on the visitors,” King said.
Fletcher hoped that Lawrence would soon feel fit enough to make a move. He wanted to get back to Denning’s place and thresh things out. But then it occurred to him that perhaps the police would be there waiting for them, and that was not at all a pleasant thought. It would be well to approach the house with caution.
The children had plucked up courage to come into the room; they were no longer so overawed by the three strangers. The woman introduced them all by name. She said the skinny man’s name was Bruce; she was Mrs. Bruce. She paused expectantly, waiting for the three of them to reveal their names, but no one did so. It seemed to disconcert her a little; her manner became perceptibly less friendly; but she did not ask them directly who they were.
Mr. Bruce came back and stared at them coldly. Fletcher felt uncomfortable, even more impatient to go. But Lawrence had his eyes closed and King was making no move. The eldest boy switched on a transistor radio and the room was filled with the sound of pop music. The boy and two of the girls began to sway to the rhythm, their young bodies moving as sinuously as snakes. The music had the effect of rousing Lawrence; he opened his eyes and sat up.
“We better go.”
“If you’re ready,” King said.
Lawrence stood up, and Fletcher was relieved to see that the drink and the brief rest did indeed appear to have refreshed him. He looked now as though he might well be fit enough to walk the rest of the way.
“I’m ready.”
The woman made no attempt to detain them this time; she seemed as happy to see them making ready to depart as her husband was.