enough to have one painted. And yet he was there all the same, said Schneider: it was the Old General— the Squire—
who filled his mind, not Kelly. Not either of the Kellys. Just the Old General.
And then he had it. ‘Like it was the Old General gave it to me,’ he says. And you can make what you like of that—
“Miss Rebecca—do not argue, I beg of you! He must not leave the Chase! I have told Peter Bradley to give that order, but he does not know me—he will not obey me. But he will obey you, Fraulein!”
He had to reach her somehow.
“But, Captain—he is with Peter, surely—”
“No! He has gone, I tell you!” He felt time accelerating away from him. “When Peter rang the bell it was to tell him that a car had passed the ford—a car with three men in it.”
“Yes, but—”
“He told Peter not to worry—that they were accounted for and expected. Expected?” If it frightened her—he had no choice. “What men?”
“I don’t know. But—”
“He knows.” He was committed now. “He was expecting them—
and he has gone to meet them.” He cast around desperately in his memory for something with which to convince her. But the truth would be meaningless to her, even if he had had time for it. “This is what he planned— from the start. . . Where are most of your dummy1
people now? They are out of the way on the ridge and along the stream where he sent them. You must believe me, Miss Rebecca!”
Suddenly her hand came to her mouth. “That gun he has—! Oh God!”
Huh! thought Benedikt. But if that would move her, then that must be his way. “I will go, Miss Rebecca—I have the car outside. But you must give that order: he is to be stopped at all costs.”
“Yes—yes—”
“Has he a car?” Without a car the man couldn’t get far.
“No—yes . . . My Metro is at Blackie’s—he’ll know that—” She didn’t stop to wonder why he was asking her.
“Well, you’ve got your road-blocks—set them up, then. And stop him at gun-point—” God in heaven! What would that lead to? But he had no more time to worry about that. “—but give that order, Miss Rebecca—now!”
“Yes.” Her decision reached, she started to move. And then stopped. “You won’t get past the lodge gates. But the key’s hanging up by the backdoor—on a hook—”
Odd how last-minute thoughts make the difference. But then odd about that 17-pounder story . . . of all the stories he could have told. Though perhaps not so odd, on second thoughts, Jack: he told a story for Captain Schneider, and no one else, I suppose.
But if she hadn’t remembered about the locked gates . . . Kelly just nipped over the wall, and headed for Blackie Nabb’s garage. But Schneider went round the back to get the key— and there was this dummy1
KGB heavy lying stone-cold dead (or still warm, rather) by the open backdoor. Three shots for him— he was the back-up man, so maybe he’d smelt something wrong and was moving when Kelly hit him; whereas the squad leader inside the lodge— the one who’d expected to wait for Kelly, and had found Kelly waiting for him—
just one heart-shot for him, nice and clean. Gunner Kelly indeed, by God! But not with an old 25-pounder— and not with an old war souvenir with no firing pin either, which told Schneider all he needed to know, which he’d only suspected until then, but was sure now— the neat head-shot— and also warned him of what lay ahead: two hundred yards away up the road, nicely parked on the verge, under the trees by the estate wall where Kelly had crossed out of the wood— a brown 2-litre Cortina, six years old and as anonymous as you could wish for, except for the driver lying dead across the front seat— another head-shot at close quarters for him, he never knew what hit him.
So Schneider put his foot down then—
It was the same tableau he had seen once before, but with differences out of a nightmare.
The farm tractor and its hay-bale-loaded trailer were slewed across the road, out of the same gateway. But now a pale blue Metro was nosed against it, driver’s door wide. That was one difference.
Inconsequential things: the Metro’s engine was still running. . . one of the gate- posts leaned out of true, beside a buckled fence, from yesterday’s charade—
dummy1
Blackie Nabb stood up from where he had been squatting beside the body on the verge. And, in the same movement, his shot-gun came up to cover Benedikt. And death brushed across him, light as a cobweb, as he faced the man in the long moment which it took to lift his empty hands.
Inconsequential things: the dead man’s legs—how did he know the man was dead?—stretched out of the tall summer grass into the road—old scuffed leather boots, hob-nailed with iron studs.
Benedikt found his voice. “Miss Rebecca sent me.” The words sounded foreign.
Blackie Nabb made a sound in his throat. “Too late.” He eyes left Benedikt’s face for an instant. “Over there.” The shot-gun lowered slowly.
