The Spanish Hawk (1969) (13 page)

“I love kids,” Fletcher said.

She chuckled. “These here kids is little devils.”

“I can’t believe you mean that. They look like angels.”

The children giggled. They didn’t believe she meant it, either.

“You better come inside,” the woman said.

They all went up the steps to the veranda and into the house, the children following, crowding in the doorway. It was the living-room; the furniture was old, worn, faded; there was a sofa with the springs thrusting up under the covering material like bones under the skin of a starved and mangy horse. Lawrence sat down and leaned back with a sigh of thankfulness.

“I go get them drinks,” the woman said.

She went through a doorway into what was probably the kitchen and came back with three glasses on a tray. Fletcher took one; it was cool and it tasted like lime-juice with a
dash of rum in it. Lawrence emptied his glass quickly and it seemed to do him a lot of good.

“You feel better now?” the woman asked.

Lawrence managed a grin. “Much better. You mix a good drink.”

“You like another?”

“No more, thanks. We have to be on our way.”

“No need to go yet. You better rest awhile.”

Lawrence glanced at King.

King said. “Sure. Give it a bit of time. No hurry.”

The skinny man looked as if he were wishing he had never stopped and offered them a lift; Fletcher could see that he was itching to be rid of them. Perhaps he thought that a man with a bloody bandage on his arm was not the kind to have around the place if you were looking for a quiet life. And he could have been right at that.

“Coupla hours it’ll be dark,” he said. “You figure you can make it to where you’re going in that time without transport?”

“We’re not afraid of the dark,” King said.

“Well, it’s you that’s walking it.” The skinny man turned and walked out of the house.

“Don’t need to take no notice of him,” the woman said. “He just don’t like visitors.”

“Maybe it depends on the visitors,” King said.

Fletcher hoped that Lawrence would soon feel fit enough to make a move. He wanted to get back to Denning’s place and thresh things out. But then it occurred to him that perhaps the police would be there waiting for them, and that was not at all a pleasant thought. It would be well to approach the house with caution.

The children had plucked up courage to come into the
room; they were no longer so overawed by the three strangers. The woman introduced them all by name. She said the skinny man’s name was Bruce; she was Mrs. Bruce. She paused expectantly, waiting for the three of them to reveal their names, but no one did so. It seemed to disconcert her a little; her manner became perceptibly less friendly; but she did not ask them directly who they were.

Mr. Bruce came back and stared at them coldly. Fletcher felt uncomfortable, even more impatient to go. But Lawrence had his eyes closed and King was making no move. The eldest boy switched on a transistor radio and the room was filled with the sound of pop music. The boy and two of the girls began to sway to the rhythm, their young bodies moving as sinuously as snakes. The music had the effect of rousing Lawrence; he opened his eyes and sat up.

“We better go.”

“If you’re ready,” King said.

Lawrence stood up, and Fletcher was relieved to see that the drink and the brief rest did indeed appear to have refreshed him. He looked now as though he might well be fit enough to walk the rest of the way.

“I’m ready.”

The woman made no attempt to detain them this time; she seemed as happy to see them making ready to depart as her husband was.

The music broke off suddenly in mid-flow. There was a short silence, then a voice in which excitement and emotion were obvious trying to break through, so that it was only with difficulty kept under control, said:

“Here is an important announcement. A report has just come in that President Clayton Rodgers has been assassinated. It appears that six armed men got into the gardens of
the Presidential Palace, shot their way past the guards, and killed the President in his private swimming-pool. Three of the assassins were shot by the guards, but the other three escaped. One of the men who escaped is believed to have been wounded, possibly in the arm.”

There was a sharp click. Mr. Bruce had stretched out his hand and switched off the radio. For a few moments nobody said a word; even the kids were silent. The man and the woman were staring at Lawrence, staring at the bandaged arm. Fletcher could read what was passing in their minds; it needed no gift of clairvoyance to do that. They could count up to three and they could draw conclusions.

It was King who finally broke the silence. “So he’s dead. Well, he had it coming. Who’s going to mourn him?”

Bruce said, his voice cracking slightly: “You better go now. We don’t want you here. You better go.”

“We’re going,” King said. He turned to the woman. “Thanks for the refreshment.”

She stared at him with frightened eyes, as though half expecting him to pull out a gun and shoot her where she stood.

There were no handshakes at parting. They went down the steps and walked past the stationary lorry and up the track towards the road. Just as they reached the first bend that would take them out of sight of the house Fletcher glanced back. The man and the woman and the six children were gathered on the veranda, watching them. He gave a
wave of the hand, but there was no answering wave. He turned his head and went on with the other two.

“They thought we did it,” Lawrence said. “They surely thought we did it.”

“Does that surprise you?” Fletcher asked. “In their place wouldn’t you have thought so?”

“Mebbe I would.”

“The question,” King said, “is what will they do about it?”

Fletcher looked at him. “You think they’ll do anything?”

“I think it’s likely. They’ll want to put themselves in the clear; they won’t want it to come out that they harboured assassins and did nothing. The man especially. My guess is he’ll take that lorry and drive like hell to the nearest police-station or telephone and put in a report. And then they’ll be on our tail real fast.”

“That’s not so funny.”

“It’s not funny at all. I don’t think we should stick to the road for long.”

“You know another way?”

“I know another way. It’s tough going, but it’s safer.” King looked at Lawrence. “Think you can make it?”

“I can make it,” Lawrence said. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I think you just might at that.”

Lawrence certainly looked a lot fitter, and as the sun sank lower it had become less hot; the trees were casting longer shadows and there was a light breeze rattling the leaves.

King had certainly not been exaggerating, however, when he had said it would be tough. There were footpaths of a sort in places, but often there were none; and they had
to do a lot of climbing up and down slopes, which was not easy for Lawrence. Nevertheless, he stuck to it without complaint, and King called a halt now and then for rest and recuperation. Fletcher was not sure how badly Lawrence was in need of these breaks, but he knew that he needed them himself. Once they heard the clatter of a helicopter, and quickly took cover. The helicopter flew over fairly low, and it could have been searching for them; but there was no certainty of that. When the sound of it had faded away they went on.

The sun had gone down and the light was rapidly failing when they reached the house. They had approached it from the north side, and they made a slight detour to the left, keeping a sharp lookout for anyone lurking in the grounds. There seemed to be no one; but when they got to the front of the house they saw that their caution had not been entirely unwarranted, for it was at once apparent that Denning had visitors. Two cars were parked on the semicircle of gravel below the terrace—a Chrysler and a big Citroën.

“Either of you know those cars?” Fletcher asked.

“Not me,” Lawrence said.

King did not recognise them, either; but he decided to take a closer look. The cars were backed up against a low stone wall that made a sweeping curve round the edge of the gravel. King crept up to the wall and peered over; and there must have been just enough daylight left to allow him to see inside, for when he rejoined the other two he was able to report that there was no one in either of them.

“No chauffeurs. No spies.”

“Do you think they could be police cars?” Fletcher asked.

“They don’t look like police cars. And besides, if the police were here there’d be Land-Rovers and God knows what. The place would be crawling with them.”

“It’s all so damned quiet, too,” Lawrence said. “Nothing seems to be going on.”

Night was coming swiftly now, and lights were showing in the windows of the house; but there was no sign of any unusual activity within. Yet somehow it was difficult to believe that whoever had arrived in the two cars had come on a purely social call. It was a problem; but it was one that would not be solved by waiting outside; there they were in the dark both figuratively and literally.

“I’m going to investigate,” King said. “You two wait here.”

Fletcher saw him pat his pocket and guessed that he was reassuring himself that the pistol was still there. He obviously thought he might need it. Fletcher fervently hoped he would not, because if he had to use the gun they were all going to be in real trouble. A moment later he was gone.

Fletcher and Lawrence waited in the shadows. King appeared in the light on the terrace and they saw him go to the door. He did not ring the bell, but apparently the door had not been locked, for he pushed it open and walked in. A very short while had elapsed before he was again in the doorway; and now Denning was with him, so it seemed likely they had met in the entrance hall. King pointed into the darkness, obviously showing Denning where the others were lurking, and Denning turned in that direction and made a beckoning gesture with his hand.

“Well,” Lawrence said, “it looks like it’s okay. We may as well get over there.”

Fletcher had a feeling of relief; he had been afraid there
might be some sticky business, but apparently there was not to be any; they could relax. The sticky business might well catch up with them later, but for the present things were going smoothly; and that was something to be thankful for. There remained the question of Leonora Dubois, of course; that would have to be thrashed out and it was not going to be a pleasant operation, but at least it could be done without violence; there would be no need for guns.

Lawrence went ahead and he followed. They came into the light and climbed the steps to the terrace. Denning and King were waiting for them.

“Thank God you’re back,” Denning said. “You really had me worried.” He noticed Lawrence’s bandaged arm. “What the devil happened to you?”

“I got in the way of a bullet,” Lawrence said.

“Oh, that’s bad; that really is bad. But things have been happening all over. You heard about the President?”

“We heard.”

“Ah!” Denning was looking past them, as though searching for someone else. “Where’s Leonora?”

“We haven’t seen her,” King said.

“But she was to pick you up. She took the Ford.”

“We came back a different way. It seemed advisable in the circumstances.”

“Oh, I see.” Denning seemed to think it over. Then he said: “Well, there’s no point in standing here. Let’s go inside and you can tell me all about it.”

They went inside. Fletcher closed the door. Denning crossed to the door of the big drawing-room, pushed it open and stood aside for them to go in. They went in and came to a sudden halt, staring.

“Allow me to introduce you,” Denning said. “Though
you, John, I believe, have met these gentlemen before.”

“Yes,” Fletcher said; “I have.”

Sitting on a sofa were the Americans, Frank Hutchins and Dale Brogan. In an armchair, placidly smoking a cigar and seemingly walled in by the arms and the back, was the small dried-up figure of Colonel Arthur W. Vincent of the Jamestown police.

Hutchins’s eyes gleamed behind the steel-rimmed glasses and he gave a little flip of the hand. “Hi there, John! Nice to see you again. Still all in one piece, too.”

Fletcher’s brain was going at the double, trying to work out all the implications while Denning went urbanely through the introduction of King and Lawrence to the other men. Denning seemed perfectly at ease; he did not give the impression of a man who was in any kind of trouble. Yet what else could the presence of Vincent and Hutchins and Brogan indicate but trouble?

Lawrence and King were obviously bewildered and uneasy; trying, like Fletcher, to get the hang of the situation and probably making no better job of it.

Vincent took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at Lawrence, and said: “You appear to have sustained an injury. I trust it is nothing serious.”

“No,” Lawrence muttered; “nothing serious.”

“He was unfortunate enough, so I understand,” Denning said, “to stand in the way of a bullet. The circumstances of the incident have not yet been made clear to me, but no doubt we shall all be given an account of it now, since I am sure we are all very much interested. Are you going to tell us, Lawrence? Or is it to be you, Matthew? Or perhaps you, John?”

Fletcher wondered what kind of game Denning was
playing. Did he really expect them to tell what had happened to the C.I.A. men and Colonel Vincent? Or was he inviting them to make up some plausible story on the spur of the moment? If so, he was not getting much response; no one was saying anything.

“Perhaps,” Vincent said, puffing out cigar smoke in fragrant clouds, “I might suggest a possible explanation. I have a feeling, Mr. Fletcher, that you have been trying to take some more photographs of a certain boat. I think that, in spite of the friendly warning I gave you a day or two ago, you have again been meddling in matters that are no concern of yours. Is that not so?”

Fletcher said nothing.

“Well,” Vincent said, “I’m glad to see you’re not going to deny it. You know you really are a most obstinate and troublesome young man. You are aware, I suppose, that there is a warrant out for your arrest on a charge of murder?”

“I’ve murdered no one,” Fletcher said.

“Ah, so you do deny that?”

“Yes.”

Vincent shrugged, and seemed to shrug himself deeper into the embrace of the armchair. “It doesn’t matter. The men were no great loss. Scum.” He gave a snap of the fingers, dismissing them; and Fletcher got the impression that the Colonel had no time for private armies and bodyguards; perhaps believing that they usurped his own position and undermined the authority of the police. “And besides, there are now far more important matters to attend to. The President has been assassinated and the culprits must be brought to justice. That will be done, never fear. Meanwhile, government must go on; affairs of state must
be attended to; things cannot be allowed to drift.”

Fletcher wondered what all this was leading up to. Colonel Vincent sucked at his cigar and blew more smoke into the air; then said:

“We have to have another president.”

“You are going to have an election?” Fletcher asked.

Vincent smiled faintly. Hutchins and Brogan also gave fleeting smiles, as though pitying such naivety.

Vincent said: “There will be no need to hold an election. We have already chosen the man.” He looked at Denning.

Fletcher also looked at Denning. Lawrence and King did the same, staring in disbelief.

“You!” Fletcher said.

Denning nodded. “I have accepted the office.”

“But you … It’s impossible.”

“Why impossible?” Denning inquired blandly. “Are you suggesting I am incapable of carrying out the duties of president?”

“You know that’s not what I am suggesting.”

“What, then?”

“Do you want me to spell it out?”

“If that would be any satisfaction to you, do so by all

means.”

“Then what about your other activities?”

“Ah,” Denning said, “you are talking, of course, about my connections with the revolutionary movement. Now you mustn’t run away with the idea that that is any obstacle to the proposed appointment.”

“No obstacle!”

“Far from it. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Fletcher glanced at Vincent and the Americans to see what their reactions were. To his amazement they appeared
entirely unmoved by this revelation that Denning had been mixed up with revolutionaries. Only King and Lawrence seemed at all affected, and they looked as bewildered as he was himself. He turned again to Denning.

“I don’t understand.”

“No? Think a little. Why do you suppose this house has always been immune from the attentions of the security forces? Why have I always been free to move about at will? Ah, now I see you are beginning to understand.”

He was right. Suddenly the whole thing had become clear to Fletcher. It was Denning who had been the double-dealer; he who had been the source of all the inside information regarding the activities of the guerrilla groups. All the time, while posing as a friend to the revolutionaries, he had in fact been working hand-in-glove with the authorities, with his cousin, Clayton Rodgers. Perhaps he, too, had been on the C.I.A. pay-roll. And perhaps his scheming had been even more Machiavellian still; perhaps he had from the first had his eye on the Presidency and had made full use of his connections on both sides of the political scene to further his ambitions. Perhaps it was he who, when the time seemed ripe, had arranged the killing of President Rodgers, knowing that he would be the one to step into his cousin’s shoes. Yes, that was how it had been. That was how it must have been.

And Leonora? Where did she fit into the pattern? As a collaborator with Denning? As a link between him and the C.I.A. rather than as a C.I.A. spy on his activities? It seemed only too probable.

Denning was smiling. “You do understand, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Fletcher said, “I understand now. I understand how the
Halcón
Español
came to be sunk, how five men
came to be killed, how the
Freedom
press came to be raided, how it came about that we were anticipated at the wreck today, how Lawrence came to be shot in the arm. I believe I even understand how the President came to be assassinated.”

“My cousin Clayton was the wrong man to be Head of State. You must admit that.”