They had almost finished eating when Leif entered. ‘Have a sandwich,’ I said compulsively.
‘No, thank you. My brother is ill. We must have a doctor.’
Several of the men exchanged cynical grins, but Max looked up sharply. ‘Ill? What do you mean?’
‘I insist you look at him,’ Leif said. ‘At once.’
His peremptory tone made Max frown, and he added, in a more conciliatory voice, ‘It may be food poisoning; I cannot tell. Would it not be advisable for you to investigate?’
They went out of the room. The men went right on eating. The suggestion of food poisoning didn’t bother them; they had diagnosed Georg’s illness sight unseen, and – I thought – correctly. John sat slumped in his chair. He had not touched the sandwiches. I nudged him and offered another plateful.
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘you prefer plain ham.’
He took one. Our eyes met for an instant, then he looked away.
Max and Leif came back. I looked up interestedly, but no explanations were forthcoming. Max only said, ‘Back to work.’
There was some subdued grumbling, especially from Hans; five sandwiches and four bottles of beer had not filled his huge stomach. John had to be dragged to his feet. He kept complaining that he was sick, but as he stumbled out, roughly assisted by Hans, Leif said with a contemptuous smile, ‘His nerve has failed. It was to be expected. He has not even the courage of a cornered rat; he can only cringe and whimper.’
I made a protesting sound. Leif’s gloating smile faded. ‘I am sorry, Vicky. But if you could see Georg as he is now, you would understand why I cannot pity the man who corrupted him.’
‘It’s not food poisoning, then?’
‘No, I only said that to force Max to look at him. It is – what you think. He has run out of the drug. During the night he neglected to close the box, and it was spilled.’
‘A little cold turkey,’ I said meditatively. ‘Who knows, it may be the making of him.’
‘Now you sound like that swine, Smythe. I hate to hear you so cynical, Vicky.’
Max reappeared at the door. ‘Are you coming?’
‘I will stay with my brother,’ Leif said, in a voice that dared Max to object. ‘Let her stay too. She is distressed – ’
‘No, I’ll go. I’d rather.’ I edged away from him.
‘You cannot guard him forever,’ Max said.
The knife was on the counter, an inch from my hand. My fingers itched, but I was afraid to take the chance. I said, ‘I’m coming, Max. Let’s go.’
The next hour was the worst of the entire affair. My stomach was churning. I didn’t know how long it would take for the powder to work, or what the effects would be – if any. Maybe I had spread it too thin. John sat on the ground, his head bent and his hands limp. I paced, biting my nails. The clouds darkened. The wind rose. The only effect lacking was a werewolf howling in the trees.
I expected Hans to show the first symptoms, since he had eaten and drunk more than the others, but perhaps his mammoth body could absorb more. I saw nothing out of the way until Rudi let out a howl of pain. He had jabbed himself in the foot with his spade. Dropping the tool, he lifted the injured member with one hand and promptly toppled over.
Max was on the spot instantly. ‘What is it?’
Rudi rolled over, grimacing with pain. ‘I couldn’t help it, Max. I am no labourer. I am exhausted.’
Max swept the rest of the crew with a suspicious eye. However, the next to go was not one of his men, it was John. With a startled cry he half rose and then pitched over onto his side.
‘Faking,’ said Max, nudging him with his toe.
A genteel trickle of blood oozed out of John’s left nostril. I peeled back one of his eyelids. Now that the time had come, my hands were quite steady.
‘He’s not faking. Look – dilated pupils, bleeding from the nose – He’s got a concussion. He’ll die if he doesn’t get help.’
‘I will, of course, send one of my men for a doctor immediately,’ Max said, with awful sarcasm. ‘Do be sensible, my dear. It is a far easier death than the one he faced.’
‘At least let me do what I can,’ I begged. ‘Lying on the cold ground like that . . .’ I peeled off my sweater and tucked it around John. ‘Give me your coat,’ I said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dr Bliss.’
‘Please – ’ I rose and approached the diggers. A couple of them looked a little dazed. ‘Please,’ I repeated. ‘He needs to be kept warm.’
It was Hans, the big, good-natured oaf, who responded. ‘I am too warm,’ he mumbled. ‘You can have my sweater.’ He did look warm. Perspiration beaded his forehead.
In the last split second I made a final check of the dispositions I had noted earlier. A man can’t dig and hold a gun at the same time. Three of them wore shoulder holsters, including Max. Rudi’s weapon – a cute little sawed-off shotgun – was on the wheelbarrow, atop the other tools. I waited until Hans had the sweater up over his head before I acted. My shrill, banshee scream stunned them for another essential second. It also told John that I was making my move.
The only one whose hand made it to the butt of his gun was the swarthy Italian. I aimed at him. In case he suffered from delusions about the incompetence of the female, I said warningly, ‘I was brought up on a farm, boys. Don’t chance it.’
There were no heroes in that crowd. Any such aspirations died when they realized mine wasn’t the only weapon pointing at them. Max was on the ground, out cold, and John had his gun.
He wasted no time complimenting me. After he had relieved the men of their surplus armaments, he gestured at Max. ‘Pick him up.’
The order was directed at Hans, but that unfortunate innocent was still hopelessly entangled in the folds of his sweater. His pale blue eyes peered over it with vague wonder.
Rudi and Willy carried Max. They were all looking groggy. The combination of beer and dope hadn’t knocked them out, but it had slowed their reflexes just enough to make the crazy plan feasible. Urged by guns and exhortations, the procession made its way to the hut in the trees. It took John only a few seconds to open the padlock, with the heavy needles in my pocket sewing kit. He bundled the prisoners inside and snapped the lock. Then, for the first time, he addressed me.
‘Where is Gus?’
‘The barn. I thought you were supposed to look for him.’
‘I had too many other things to do last night. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t take my word for it.’
He had a point. I said, ‘Hadn’t we better collect the rest of the artillery?’
‘Yes, right. We can’t carry that lot around; it’s too bulky. Over the cliff?’
‘Sounds good to me – ’ I broke off with a gulp. The figure looming up in front of me looked like an ambulatory tree trunk, featureless against the lighter grey of the open pasture beyond.
‘Vicky! Thank heaven, you are all right I heard you scream; I thought . . .’ Leif held out his arms. I stayed where I was.
‘Put your hands up, Hasseltine,’ John said, edging away.
‘Don’t be afraid.’ Leif’s voice was contemptuous. ‘I would not risk myself for you, but I am happy you have succeeded. Now I can take my brother to a doctor. Come, let us return to the house.’
Not unnaturally, he kept an eye on John’s gun, turning as the latter continued to move sideways. The muzzle of the weapon stayed fixed on Leif’s chest, and he said impatiently, ‘Don’t be a fool, Smythe. Vicky, convince him that I – ’
I hit him across the side of the head with the barrel of the shotgun. He had a skull like a granite boulder. The blow dropped him to his knees, but he didn’t flatten out until John had pounded him a few more times, with the methodical precision of a carpenter driving in spikes.
‘That’s enough,’ I said, wincing.
John handed me the gun.
‘Keep him covered,’ he said.
Kneeling, he yanked off his belt and strapped Leif’s ankles. I contributed my belt, which he used on Leif’s wrists. He wasn’t satisfied. ‘What we need is a drum of wire,’ he grumbled. ‘Go get that heavy twine Georg was
