Kerman’s head appeared above the ledge, then I crawled forward and pulled him up beside me. We flopped down, side by side, not saying anything.
After a while I got unsteadily to my feet.
“We’re having quite a night,” I said, leaning against the crevice wall.
Kerman squinted up at me.
“Yeah,” he said. “Will I get a medal for that?”
“I’ll buy you a drink instead,” I said, drew in a deep breath, dug my shoulders into the wall and got my feet up against the opposite wall. By pressing hard with my shoulders and feet I managed to maintain a sitting position between the two walls.
“Is that the way you’re going to travel?” Kerman asked, horrified.
“Yeah—it’s an old Swiss custom.”
“Have I got to do that, too?”
“Unless you want to stay where you are for the rest of your days.” I said heartlessly.
“There’s no other way.”
I began to edge myself upwards. The sharp rocks dug into my shoulder-blades, and it was slow work, but I made progress. So long as the muscles in my legs didn’t turn sour on me I would get to the top. But if they did, it would be a quick drop and a rocky landing.
I kept moving. I’d rather go up this way than attempt the bulge. A third of the way up I had to stop and rest. My legs felt as if I had been running for a hundred miles, and the muscles in my thighs were fluttering.
“How are you doing, pal?” Kerman called, shining his flash up at me.
“Well, I’m still in one piece,” I said dubiously. “Wait until I get to the top before you try it.”
“Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”
I stared again. It was slow work, and my shoulders began to ache. I kept looking up at the star-studded sky. It seemed to be coming closer; maybe that was just wishful thinking, but it inspired me to keep on. I kept on, my breath hissing through clenched teeth, my legs stiffening, my shoulders bruised. Up and up; inch by inch, knowing there was no going back. I had to get up there or fall.
The crevice began to narrow, and I knew then I was passing the bulge. The going became harder. My knees were being slowly forced towards my chin. I was getting less leverage. Then suddenly I stopped. I could go no farther. Above me the crevice had narrowed down to about three feet. Bracing myself, I got out the flashlight and sent the beam along the wall and above me. A scrubby bush grew out of the rock within reach. To my right was a narrow shelf: the top of the bulge.
I put the flash back into my pocket, reached for the bush. I got a grip on it close to where it grew out of the cliff and pulled gently. It held. I transferred some of my weight to it. It still held. Then drawing in a deep breath I relaxed the pressure of my feet against the wall and swung into space. It was quite a moment. The bush bent, but it was well rooted. I swung to and fro, feeling sweat like ice-water running down my spine, then I swung myself towards the ledge and with my free hand groped for a hold. My fingers dipped into a crack: not enough to hold me, but just enough to steady me. I hung there, pressing my body against the wall of the crevice, my feet treading air, my right hand clutching the bush, my left hand dug into the narrow crack in the ledge. One false move now, and I would go down. I was scared all right. I’ve been in some panics in my life, but none like this one.
Very cautiously I began to lever down with my right hand and pull with my left. I moved up slowly. My head and shoulders came up above the ledge. I began to lean forward as my chest touched the edge of the ledge. I hung like that, nearly done, my heart pounding, blood singing in my ears. After a while I collected enough strength to climb another couple of inches. I dragged up one knee and rested it on the ledge. Then, with a frantic effort, I heaved forward and was on the ledge, flat on my back, aware of nothing but the pounding of my heart and the rasping of my breath.
“Vic!”
Kerman’s voice floated up the funnel of the crevice.
I made a croaking noise and crawled to the edge.
“Are you all right, Vic?”
His voice sounded miles away: a faint whisper out of the darkness. Looking down I saw a pin-point of light waving to and fro. I had no idea I had climbed so far, and seeing that light made me dizzy.
“Yeah,” I shouted back. “Give me a minute.”
After a while I got my breath and nerve back.
“You can’t do it, Jack,” I shouted down to him. “You’ll have to wait until I can get a rope. It’s too tricky. Don’t try it.”
“Where will you get the rope from?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find something. You wait there.”
I turned around and sent the beam of the flashlight into the darkness. I was only about thirty feet below the cliff head. The rest of the way was easy.
“I’m going now,” I shouted down to him. “Hang on until I get a rope.”
I practically walked up the next thirty feet, and came up right beside the ornate swimming-pool. Above me was the house. A solitary light burned in one of the windows.
I set off towards it.
IV
The verandah, when I got there, was deserted, and the swing lounging chair looked invitingly comfortable. I would have liked to have stretched out on it and taken a twelve-hour nap.
A standard lamp with a yellow and blue parchment shade was alight in the big lounge. The casement doors leading from the lounge to the verandah stood open.
I paused at the head of the verandah steps at the sound of a voice: a woman’s voice, out of tune with the still, summer night, the scent of flowers and the big yellow moon. The voice was loud and shrill. Maybe it was angry, too, and the edges of it were a little frayed with suppressed hysteria.
“Oh, shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” The voice was saying. “Come quickly. You’ve talked enough. Just shut up and come!”
I could see her in there, kneeling on one of the big settees, holding the telephone in a small, tight-clenched fist. Her back was turned to me. The light from the lamp fell directly on her beautifully-shaped head and picked out the tints in her raven-black hair. She was wearing a pair of high-waisted, bottle-green slacks and a silk shirt of the same colour, and made the kind of picture Varga likes to draw. She was his type: long legged, small hipped, high breasted, and as alive and as quick as mercury.
She said, “Do stop it! Why go on and on? Just come. That’s all you have to do,” and she slammed down the receiver.
I didn’t think the situation called for stealth or super-refined cunning, and I wasn’t in the mood to play pretty. I was leg-weary and bruised and still short of breath, and my temper was as touchy as the filed trigger of a heist man’s rod. So I moved into the room without bothering to tread quietly. My footfalls across the parquet floor sounded like miniature explosions.
I saw her back stiffen. Her head turned slowly. She looked over her shoulder at me. Her big black eyes opened wide. There was a pause in which you could have counted a slow ten. She didn’t recognize me. She saw what looked like an overgrown sailor in tattered white ducks with a rip in one trousers knee, a shirt any laundry would have returned with a note of complaint and a face that had more dirt on it than freckles.
“Hello,” I said quietly. “Remember me? Your pal, Malloy.”
She remembered me then. She drew in a deep breath, pushed herself off the settee and stood firmly on her small, well-shaped feet.
“How did you get here?” she asked, her face and voice were as expressionless as the ruffles on her shirt.
“I climbed the cliff. You should try it sometime when you run out of excitement,” I said, moving into the room. “It’s good for the figure, too; not that there’s anything wrong with yours.”
