The music broke off suddenly in mid-flow. There was a short silence, then a voice in which excitement and emotion were obvious trying to break through, so that it was only with difficulty kept under control, said:
“Here is an important announcement. A report has just come in that President Clayton Rodgers has been assassinated. It appears that six armed men got into the gardens of the Presidential Palace, shot their way past the guards, and killed the President in his private swimming-pool. Three of the assassins were shot by the guards, but the other three escaped. One of the men who escaped is believed to have been wounded, possibly in the arm.”
THIRTEEN:
CONFRONTATION
There was a sharp click. Mr. Bruce had stretched out his hand and switched off the radio. For a few moments nobody said a word; even the kids were silent. The man and the woman were staring at Lawrence, staring at the bandaged arm. Fletcher could read what was passing in their minds; it needed no gift of clairvoyance to do that. They could count up to three and they could draw conclusions.
It was King who finally broke the silence. “So he’s dead. Well, he had it coming. Who’s going to mourn him?”
Bruce said, his voice cracking slightly: “You better go now. We don’t want you here. You better go.”
“We’re going,” King said. He turned to the woman. “Thanks for the refreshment.”
She stared at him with frightened eyes, as though half expecting him to pull out a gun and shoot her where she stood.
There were no handshakes at parting. They went down the steps and walked past the stationary lorry and up the track towards the road. Just as they reached the first bend that would take them out of sight of the house Fletcher glanced back. The man and the woman and the six children were gathered on the veranda, watching them. He gave a wave of the hand, but there was no answering wave. He turned his head and went on with the other two.
“They thought we did it,” Lawrence said. “They surely thought we did it.”
“Does that surprise you?” Fletcher asked. “In their place wouldn’t you have thought so?”
“Mebbe I would.”
“The question,” King said, “is what will they do about it?”
Fletcher looked at him. “You think they’ll do anything?”
“I think it’s likely. They’ll want to put themselves in the clear; they won’t want it to come out that they harboured assassins and did nothing. The man especially. My guess is he’ll take that lorry and drive like hell to the nearest police-station or telephone and put in a report. And then they’ll be on our tail real fast.”
“That’s not so funny.”
“It’s not funny at all. I don’t think we should stick to the road for long.”
“You know another way?”
“I know another way. It’s tough going, but it’s safer.” King looked at Lawrence. “Think you can make it?”
“I can make it,” Lawrence said. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I think you just might at that.”
Lawrence certainly looked a lot fitter, and as the sun sank lower it had become less hot; the trees were casting longer shadows and there was a light breeze rattling the leaves.
King had certainly not been exaggerating, however, when he had said it would be tough. There were footpaths of a sort in places, but often there were none; and they had to do a lot of climbing up and down slopes, which was not easy for Lawrence. Nevertheless, he stuck to it without complaint, and King called a halt now and then for rest and recuperation. Fletcher was not sure how badly Lawrence was in need of these breaks, but he knew that he needed them himself. Once they heard the clatter of a helicopter, and quickly took cover. The helicopter flew over fairly low, and it could have been searching for them; but there was no certainty of that. When the sound of it had faded away they went on.
The sun had gone down and the light was rapidly failing when they reached the house. They had approached it from the north side, and they made a slight detour to the left, keeping a sharp lookout for anyone lurking in the grounds. There seemed to be no one; but when they got to the front of the house they saw that their caution had not been entirely unwarranted, for it was at once apparent that Denning had visitors. Two cars were parked on the semicircle of gravel below the terrace — a Chrysler and a big Citroën.
“Either of you know those cars?” Fletcher asked.
“Not me,” Lawrence said.
King did not recognise them, either; but he decided to take a closer look. The cars were backed up against a low stone wall that made a sweeping curve round the edge of the gravel. King crept up to the wall and peered over; and there must have been just enough daylight left to allow him to see inside, for when he rejoined the other two he was able to report that there was no one in either of them.
“No chauffeurs. No spies.”
“Do you think they could be police cars?” Fletcher asked.
“They don’t look like police cars. And besides, if the police were here there’d be Land-Rovers and God knows what. The place would be crawling with them.”
“It’s all so damned quiet, too,” Lawrence said. “Nothing seems to be going on.”
Night was coming swiftly now, and lights were showing in the windows of the house; but there was no sign of any unusual activity within. Yet somehow it was difficult to believe that whoever had arrived in the two cars had come on a purely social call. It was a problem; but it was one that would not be solved by waiting outside; there they were in the dark both figuratively and literally.
“I’m going to investigate,” King said. “You two wait here.”
Fletcher saw him pat his pocket and guessed that he was reassuring himself that the pistol was still there. He obviously thought he might need it. Fletcher fervently hoped he would not, because if he had to use the gun they were all going to be in real trouble. A moment later he was gone.
Fletcher and Lawrence waited in the shadows. King appeared in the light on the terrace and they saw him go to the door. He did not ring the bell, but apparently the door had not been locked, for he pushed it open and walked in. A very short while had elapsed before he was again in the doorway; and now Denning was with him, so it seemed likely they had met in the entrance hall. King pointed into the darkness, obviously showing Denning where the others were lurking, and Denning turned in that direction and made a beckoning gesture with his hand.
“Well,” Lawrence said, “it looks like it’s okay. We may as well get over there.”
Fletcher had a feeling of relief; he had been afraid there might be some sticky business, but apparently there was not to be any; they could relax. The sticky business might well catch up with them later, but for the present things were going smoothly; and that was something to be thankful for. There remained the question of Leonora Dubois, of course; that would have to be thrashed out and it was not going to be a pleasant operation, but at least it could be done without violence; there would be no need for guns.
Lawrence went ahead and he followed. They came into the light and climbed the steps to the terrace. Denning and King were waiting for them.
“Thank God you’re back,” Denning said. “You really had me worried.” He noticed Lawrence’s bandaged arm. “What the devil happened to you?”
“I got in the way of a bullet,” Lawrence said.
“Oh, that’s bad; that really is bad. But things have been happening all over. You heard about the President?”
“We heard.”
“Ah!” Denning was looking past them, as though searching for someone else. “Where’s Leonora?”
“We haven’t seen her,” King said.
“But she was to pick you up. She took the Ford.”
“We came back a different way. It seemed advisable in the circumstances.”