Roger walked stiffly towards the Chevrolet, his arm brushing against Lissa’s. She stared straight ahead of her, and seemed to be moving like clockwork. The man from the other side of the Lincoln walked behind them, a hand in his pocket, his gun hidden. Pullinger was already in the Lincoln, covering Marino and the driver.
Lissa said softly: “Roger.”
He glanced at her. She didn’t raise her voice.
“Roger, I don’t think we’ll see Gissing. We might talk to him, but we won’t see him. You’re the one on the spot. We might get away, but you won’t.”
“Quit talking,” said the man behind them.
“Tell me a thing I can do,” Roger said.
She didn’t answer. He didn’t need an answer. He could try to tackle the man behind him, and might manage to get away. The road was empty but for the two cars, now; another might come into sight at any moment, but would it do more than bring others into the tragedy? This was complete and utter failure.
They were almost alongside the Chevrolet.
“I’m going to run,” Lissa said in that faint whisper. “And you’re going to run, when I’ve drawn fire. One of us will have a chance. Be ready.”
“Don’t do it! “ The man behind might hear his voice or at least the urgency of Roger’s manner. He gripped Lissa’s arm. “Don’t do it.”
“I’m going to run,” Lissa said. “You’ll have a chance that way.”
On the last word, she pushed him aside, then raced alongside the Chevrolet. Roger staggered against the side of the car. There was a wire fence along the road here, and beyond it an orchard of young fruit trees, but Lissa hadn’t a chance to reach cover. Roger was still off his balance when he heard the shot and saw her fall.
23
THE FACE OF MARINO
LISSA fell headlong as the echo of the shot died away. She was still moving with convulsive jerks of arms, legs and head when Roger turned on the man behind him, who had shot her. If the gun had been pointing at his own chest and murder been in that man’s eyes, it would have made no difference. Roger saw that the man was still watching Lissa; he could see nothing in the car behind. Swiftly he flung himself forward and downwards, arms outstretched to grab the gunman’s legs. The roar of a shot blasted his ears as his arms folded behind the man’s knees and he heaved.
The man pitched backwards, his hat flew off, his head crashed against the road.
There might be danger left, but not from the fallen man. He lay as still as death, the gun a few inches from a limp hand; as Roger stood up, blood started to flow sluggishly, collecting the pale dust of the road. Now the danger came from Pullinger and the Lincoln. Roger snatched the gun, his finger on the trigger as he looked up, prepared for the winged bullet of death. Pullinger, Marino and the driver were puppets leaping and prancing between him and Lissa; the burning image on his mind was of Lissa, falling.
It faded.
Marino had turned in his seat, and it was almost impossible for Marino to turn. His face was just a cheek, an ear and the tip of a nose. He had twisted himself round so that his left arm was over the back of his seat, fingers buried deep in Pullinger’s neck. His right fist, clenched, smashed and kept smashing into Pullinger’s face, and already that youthful face was a scarlet running wound. There were other sounds, of car engines and car horns, but all that Roger really heard was the sickening thudding of fist against face.
The driver was plucking helplessly at Marino’s wrists.
Roger made himself look round. A car had stopped, and two men were running towards Lissa, another car was drawing up alongside him, the driver shouting questions which he didn’t hear. He could leave Lissa to others; he must. He ran to the door of the Lincoln, pulled it open, and struck Marino on the side of the head, a blow that would have knocked most men sideways. Marino kept smashing into the red mess. Roger struck him again, savagely, and Marino’s grip on Pullinger’s neck relaxed. The driver put both hands against Pullinger’s shoulders and pushed; Pullinger fell back on the seat. Roger saw the driver lean over to take Pullinger’s gun from the floor.
Marino moved round clumsily. Roger looked into a face so suffused with hatred that he himself could neither move nor speak. He didn’t know how long he stood there. He was vaguely aware that motorists were approaching, warily because of the guns in his hand and in the driver’s; and he saw, as if it were happening a long way off and had nothing to do with him, that the motorists stopped dead when they saw Marino.
At last Marino’s gaze shifted, and he looked past Roger towards the orchard and the men who bent over Lissa. Roger didn’t know that they were lifting her. He saw the transformation; it was like watching a devil turn into a saint. All hatred died. Yearning showed in Marino’s eyes, and his face was touched with a softness that matched a mother’s for a child; a lover’s for his love.
He didn’t speak or need to speak. Roger knew why he had succumbed to the red surge of rage, why he had changed now.
• • •
A man said: “Put that gun down, will you?”
“Don’t get too near, Hank,” another warned.
“You heard me — put that gun down.”
Roger forced himself to look away from Marino and saw the motorists, two of them, Hank probably the nearer, a stripling wearing a peaked skull cap and a red lumber-jacket, whose long jaw was thrust forward and who was edging closer.
Roger swallowed.
“Has anyone called the police?” he asked. His voice was husky, but the words seemed to carry reassurance. He dropped the gun into his pocket, put a hand on Marino’s shoulder and said: “I’ll look after her.” He hurried away, ignoring protests from Hank and his cautious friend.
Lissa was lying on her back, with a folded coat beneath her head, hair bared to the bright sun, body limp but eyes wide open. One of the men with her straightened up and hurried towards the road, glancing at Roger without stopping. But he called:
“Must get a doctor, quick.”
The other man was speaking to Lissa.
“Just stay where you are, you’ll be okay. But don’t move, honey, don’t move.”
Lissa didn’t move.
She was looking towards Roger, recognized him, smiled as he drew near. She looked pale, but didn’t seem to be in pain. Blood stained her beige shirt-blouse, near the waist, and seemed to be spreading, and the men by her side stared down helplessly. If the blood came from one side it didn’t matter, if it sprang from a wound in the middle of her body, it might be deadly.
“I’m all right, Roger,” she said. “See, I’m learning the correct thing to say.”
“Now you keep quiet.” He smiled at her as he might at Janet, brusquely affectionate. “Tony nearly pushed Pullinger’s nose to the back of his head.” He stripped off his coat, knelt down and laid it on the ground, then gently tucked one side beneath her. The back of his hand came away red from the patch of blood. “Does it hurt much?”
“It hardly hurts at all. It’s beginning to ache a little.”
He unzipped her skirt at the side near the wound, his movements quick yet gentle. She wore a pair of white nylon panties and a narrow suspender belt; skin and belt were soaked with blood, and he still couldn’t tell where the wound was.
“It fastens on the other side,” Lissa said.
“You’ll have to buy yourself a new belt.” Roger felt for his knife; of course, Gissing’s men must have taken it. “Have you a knife?” He held out his hand, and the man fumbled in his pockets and produced a big one, opened the blade and thrust the handle towards Roger. “Thanks.” Roger cut the belt carefully, and it sagged away. Blood pumped out of the wound and ran over his hand. The man gasped in horror. Roger glanced up at Lissa’s eyes, seeing the anxiety which lurked in their honey-coloured depths.
“It won’t kill you,” he said, steadily, “it’s too far to one side.” But it could. He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed the wound, until he could see the actual hole in the flesh. “Handkerchief,” he snapped to the other man, who began to fumble helplessly in his pocket. Slipping off his jacket, Roger unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, flung it at the man and said: “Tear it, fold it into a wad.” He pressed his fingers against Lissa’s flesh, found the bone nearest the artery, pressed tightly. He had to staunch the flow, or she would bleed to death.
“A doctor, too,” Lissa mocked.
“You don’t need a doctor,” he said. “You need a keeper. Lissa, one day I will — we all will tell you what we think about you. Just now, relax.”
The man gave him a wadded piece of shirt, but he didn’t use it at once. The bleeding had stopped, but would start again as soon as he released the pressure.
The wail of a siren came clearly through the air.
“Police or an ambulance,” Roger said to Lissa. “The ambulance will be here any minute, anyhow. You’re going to have a long rest, but you’ll be fine. There won’t be a scar where it matters.” The sun was warm on his arms and back, his fingers began to ache. “If you’d seen Tony,” he went on, “you would have thought his world had come to an end. When he thought you —”
The wailing was much nearer now, a mournful herald of rescue or of doom.
Lissa said: “I know just how Tony feels. Is he hurt?”
“If anyone’s hurt him,” said Roger, “you have. Not that I blame you.”
She didn’t answer.
The wailing pierced his ears and stopped, and more wailing sounded from farther away. The first was a police siren, the second the ambulance. A young doctor took over quickly, and there was nothing more for Roger to do. The doctor grunted as if satisfied with what had been done so far.
Roger smiled down, and said easily:
“I’ll see you soon, we’ll get the other job finished now. Don’t worry, Lissa.”
He turned away and walked quickly back to the Lincoln and the crowd around it A traffic cop was talking to Marino, aggressively at first, then with a swift somersault into deference. Marino had conquered emotion, there was a pale copy of his smile for Roger — and a question shouting from his eyes.
“A month in hospital, I should think,” said Roger.
Marino drew in his breath, and relief glowed in his eyes.
“That’s wonderful,” he said. “Wonderful. Do you know how to get these folk away from here?” He waved to the pressing crowd, and cops started bellowing. Pullinger had already been taken out of the car and was lying, unconscious, by the roadside. He would probably never recognize his face again. “Get in behind me,” Marino said. Roger obeyed, and the driver started the engine, one of the traffic cops clearing a path. They drove slowly through the crowd. Marino looked out of the window at Lissa and the doctor bending over her, the ambulance men waiting for instructions. He waved. Lissa’s head was turned towards him, and she smiled. Marino dropped his hand, stared straight ahead for a minute, then drew a great breath and spoke in a clear voice. “Listen, Roger. Pullinger wasn’t as good as he thought, our men were suspicious. No one was drawn away from the farmhouse, but the house Pullinger named was cordoned off as well. Now we’ll raid —”
“Not your way nor my way,” Roger said sharply. “Stop, driver.” The man braked, and Marino half-turned his head, ready to lay down the law. “I’m going up to that farmhouse with as many men as you like,” said Roger. “We’ll take Pullinger’s car. Gissing will recognize it, and it will fool him. I can wear Pullinger’s coat and hat, too.”
Marino ran thumb and fingers over his chin.
“Go and get that Chevy,” he said. “My God, you British are stubborn! I’ll go on. We’ll meet at the restaurant, a mile along the road.
• • •
Pullinger had said that Gissing would wait twenty minutes, but that could have been bluff. It could have been in earnest, too. The tumult of the hold-up was stilled, but a new storm blew, and Roger’s mind’s-eye picture of Ricky Shawn’s face hid everything else. The bright, frightened eyes and the plastered lips, the frail arms with the cruel steel bracelets round them, were all vivid. There was nothing Gissing would not do. It had been a mistake to say that he would take Marino’s men in the car, he ought to go alone. Alone, he might be able to bargain; with others, Gissing would know that the end was inevitable and might kill for the sake of killing. These thoughts pressed sharp against Roger’s mind as he stood outside the restaurant by the side of the Lincoln, with several clean-limbed men standing nearby, waiting for Marino’s orders. Marino was talking to the man in charge.
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?
