Night Train to Memphis

– for her brothers’ death.’

‘Her brother . . .’

‘Brothers. Two of them.’ After a brief pause he said resignedly, ‘The fat’s deep in the fire now, so I may as well abandon reticence. Or have you enough clues to reason it out for yourself? Two brothers, a strong streak of homicidal mania, and those bright, empty brown eyes . . .’

It was true; I’d only known one other person with eyes of that unusual golden brown. When I first met him, in Stockholm, I had thought him a gorgeous specimen of Nordic manhood, built like a Viking, and tall – really tall. It’s hard to find men who are six inches taller than I am. I had been prepared to overlook the fact that Leif’s sense of humour was practically nonexistent, but when I found out he was Max’s boss and one of the gang, I sort of lost my girlish enthusiasm.

John had been responsible for Leif’s death. In this case my objection to murder had been overcome by the fact that Leif had been trying to kill me, and would undoubtedly have succeeded if John hadn’t intervened.

‘You didn’t kill Georg,’ I said, watching his hands twist and press. ‘Or did you?’

‘No. His cellmate did him in, rather messily, last year. However, since I was partially responsible for sending him away she has some justice on her . . . Ah. There we are.’

He handed me the pins.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked: ‘I know – out. How?’

‘Any ideas?’ John peered cautiously through the slit in the opening door.

‘My room. I want to get my purse.’

‘You won’t need a purse if we don’t make it out of here,’ was the depressing response.

‘My room has a balcony. Someone is sure to spot us if we go through the house.’

‘Point taken. Come on, then.’

My door was locked too. John left the key in place after he had turned it.

I offered him the lock picks. ‘If they find the door is still locked, they may not look in here.’

‘Once they discover we’ve gone they’ll look everywhere.’ He headed for the balcony. ‘You might have mentioned it’s a thirty-foot drop,’ he said, returning.

‘I assumed you knew.’ We were both whispering. Footsteps had passed my door without stopping, but I had a feeling they’d soon be back. ‘Knot some sheets together.’

‘Trite, but worth a try. Now what the hell are you doing?’

‘Looking for my bag. Maybe I put it in the wardrobe.’

I’d been expecting it, but I started convulsively when it came – a wordless, genderless shout of rage, hardly muted by the heavy door. The response was just as audible. ‘You two cover the doors. They may not have left the house.’

I recognized that voice, though it had been several years since I’d heard it. I froze, my fingers clutching the strap of my bag. John grabbed me around the waist, trying, as I thought, to pull me towards the balcony. Instead he lifted me, shot me into the wardrobe, and closed the door.

And locked it. I couldn’t imagine how, I hadn’t seen a key or a keyhole, but when I shoved at the damned thing it didn’t budge. Then I stopped shoving. I also stopped breathing. The door of the room had burst open.

Maybe they’d look under the bed first. The wardrobe would certainly be next, there was no place else to hide, and they were obviously thorough, well-organized chaps. And while they searched for me – and found me – John would have time . . .

He had time. He was as agile as a cat; he could have dropped from the balcony and taken his chances on breaking a rib or two. I would have risked it, given the alternative. He didn’t. I stood there in the dark, wincing and biting my knuckles and calling myself names as I listened to what was happening. It didn’t last long. They were three to one.

And one of them was Hans, Max’s large, slow-witted associate. I discovered this after I had realized the interior of the wardrobe wasn’t completely dark. The pierced openings in the grillwork admitted light. A couple of them were big enough to give me a clear view.

Fortunately I was too short of breath to cry out, or I might have done so when I spotted Max, less than two feet away from my wide blue eye. His bald head shone as if it had been polished. The heavy horn-rimmed glasses provided an additional distraction – he must have worn contact lenses before – but if I had ever gotten a long, close look at him I would have known him. ‘Mr Schroeder,’ Larry’s secretary, had found reasonable excuses for keeping out of my way.

One of Hans’s ham-sized-fists was wrapped around John’s left arm. The guy who held his other arm was familiar too. Rudi always looked as if he wanted to murder somebody, and his expression hadn’t changed. This time I deduced he wanted to murder John. Rudi had one hand pressed against his stomach and he was whooping for breath, but the gallant lad mustered enough strength to give John’s arm a sharp upward and backward twist. John yelled, of course. Stoicism was not a quality he chose to cultivate.

‘Gently,’ Max said gently. ‘That is his right arm, Rudi. He must be able to use it.’

There was blood on his chin. (I couldn’t help noticing that Hans was unbruised and unbloodied. John tried to pick on people who were smaller than he was.) Max took out a handkerchief, wiped his mouth, studied the resultant smear of blood with fastidious distaste, and threw the handkerchief on the floor.

‘Where is she?’ he asked.

John opened his eyes as wide as they would go. ‘Who?’

Rudi had got his breath back. His shoulder shifted and John let out a pained yelp.

‘Stop it,’ Max said. He didn’t sound as if he meant it, though.

‘The balcony, I suppose,’ Max went on. ‘While you put up a gallant battle to prevent pursuit. Or was that the reason? I find it hard to believe that you would risk yourself even for her.’

‘I was dumbfounded myself,’ John admitted. ‘No doubt I did have another motive. I wonder what it could have been? You’re such a profound student of human nature, Maxie, perhaps you can suggest – ’

‘Get him out of here,’ Max said shortly.

‘What about the woman?’ Rudi demanded. His eyes moved, scanning the room.

‘The only woman in the house is my child bride,’ said John smoothly. ‘I wouldn’t interrupt her if I were you, Rudi, old chap, she’s probably sharpening her knives or dismembering a baby or – ’

I knew Max would crack if he kept it up long enough. John must have known too. Max’s backhand swing was – understandably – aimed at his mouth. It was hard enough to snap his head back and leave him hanging limp between the men who held him.

‘Tie him up,’ Max said.

‘But, Herr Max,’ Rudi began.

‘And gag him. If he makes one more clever remark I may not be able to control myself.’

I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t stop myself. Gnawing on my knuckles, I followed the proceedings with dry-eyed, unblinking attention. They tied his wrists and ankles and used the handkerchief Max had tossed onto the floor as a gag. There was more than a smear of blood on it when they finished.

Max watched too. His back was turned to me when he said coldly, ‘Take him away. I will stay here and search the room, just to be certain.’

Chapter Ten

MY HEART should have skipped a beat, or maybe my blood should have run cold. I didn’t feel a thing. Except a distant primeval urge to lay violent hands on Max.

After the others had gone out he closed the door. Then he looked at the wardrobe and said quietly, ‘I am sorry you had to see that, Dr Bliss.’

‘I’m sorry too.’ His statement had been so unexpected, not to say inapropos, that I answered without thinking. Why not? He knew I was there. Was he now going to apologize for dragging me out and turning me over to Hans and Rudi? And Mary?

‘Do you have a watch?’