Fear is the Key (7 page)

‘Out in the gulf. You mean one of those floating
platforms for drilling for oil? I thought they were
all up off the bayou country off Louisiana.'

‘They're all round now – off Mississippi, Alabama
and Florida. Dad's got one right down near Key
West. And they don't float, they – oh, what does
it matter? He's on X 13.'

‘No phone, huh?'

‘Yes. A submarine cable. And a radio from the
shore office.'

‘No radio. Too public. The phone – just ask the
operator for the X 13, huh?'

She nodded without speaking, and Jablonsky
crossed to the phone, asked the motel switchboard
girl for the exchange, asked for the X 13 and stood
there waiting, whistling in a peculiarly tuneless
fashion until a sudden thought occurred to him.

‘How does your father commute between the rig
and shore?'

‘Boat or helicopter. Usually helicopter.'

‘What hotel does he stay at when he's ashore?'

‘Not a hotel. Just an ordinary family house. He's
got a permanent lease on a place about two miles
south of Marble Springs.'

Jablonsky nodded and resumed his whistling.
His eyes appeared to be gazing at a remote point
in the ceiling, but when I moved a foot a couple
of experimental inches those eyes were on me
instantly. Mary Ruthven had seen both the movement
of my foot and the immediate switch of
Jablonsky's glance, and for a fleeting moment
her eyes caught mine. There was no sympathy
in it, but I stretched my imagination a little and
thought I detected a flicker of fellow-feeling. We
were in the same boat and it was sinking fast.

The whistling had stopped. I could hear an
indistinguishable crackle of sound then Jablonsky
said: ‘I want to speak to General Ruthven. Urgently.
It's about – say that again? I see. I see.'

He depressed the receiver and looked at Mary
Ruthven.

‘Your father left the X 13 at 4 p.m., and hasn't
returned. They say he won't be back until they've
found you. Blood, it would appear, is thicker than
oil. Makes things all the easier for me.' He got
through to the new number he'd been given from
the oil rig and asked for the general again. He got
him almost at once and didn't waste a word.

‘General Blair Ruthven … I've got news for
you, General. Good news and bad. I've got your
daughter here. That's the good news. The bad news
is that it'll cost you fifty thousand bucks to get her
back.' Jablonsky broke off and listened, spinning
the Mauser gently round his forefinger, smiling as
always. ‘No, General, I am not John Talbot. But
Talbot's with me right now. I've persuaded him
that keeping father and daughter apart any longer
is downright inhuman. You know Talbot, General,
or you know of him. It took a lot of persuading.
Fifty thousand bucks' worth of persuading.'

The smile suddenly vanished from Jablonsky's
face leaving it bleak and cold and hard. The real
Jablonsky. His voice, when he spoke, was softer
and deeper than ever and gently reproving as to
an erring child.

‘General, do you know what? I just heard a
funny little click. The sort of funny little click
you hear on a line when some smart-alec nosey
picks up an extension and starts flapping his ears
or when somebody cuts in a tape recorder. I don't
want any eavesdroppers. No records of private
conversations. Neither do you. Not if you ever
want to see your daughter again … ah, that's
better. And General, don't get any funny ideas
about telling someone to get through to the cops
on another line to ask them to trace this call. We'll
be gone from wherever we are in exactly two
minutes from now. What's your answer? Make
it quickly, now.'

Another brief pause, then Jablonsky laughed
pleasantly.

‘Threatening you, General? Blackmail, General?
Kidnapping, General? Don't be so silly, General.
There's no law that says that a man can't run
away from a vicious killer, is there? Even if that
vicious killer happens to have a kidnappee with
him. I'll just walk out and leave them together.
Tell me, are you bargaining for your daughter's
life, General? Is she worth no more to you than
less than one-fiftieth of one per cent of all you
own? Is that all her value to a doting father? She's
listening in to all this, General. I wonder what she
might think of you, eh? Willing to sacrifice her life
for an old shoe-button – for that's all fifty thousand
bucks is to you … Sure, sure you can speak to her.'
He beckoned to the girl, who ran across the room
and snatched the phone from his hand.

‘Daddy? Daddy! … Yes, yes, it's me, of course
it's me. Oh, Daddy, I never thought –'

‘Right, that'll do.' Jablonsky laid his big square
brown hand across the mouthpiece and took the
phone from her. ‘Satisfied, General Blair? The
genuine article, huh?' There was a short silence,
then Jablonsky smiled broadly. ‘Thank you, General
Blair. I'm not worrying about any guarantee. The
word of General Ruthven has always been guarantee
enough.' He listened a moment, and when he
spoke again the sardonic glint in his eyes as he
looked at Mary Ruthven gave the lie to the sincerity
in his voice. ‘Besides, you know quite well that
if you welshed on that money and had a house full
of cops, your daughter would never speak to you
again … No need to worry about my not coming.
There's every reason why I should. Fifty thousand,
to be exact.'

He hung up. ‘On your feet, Talbot. We have an
appointment with high society.'

‘Yes.' I sat where I was. ‘And then you turn me
over to the law and collect your fifteen thousand?'

‘Sure. Why not?'

‘I could give you twenty thousand reasons.'

‘Yeah?' He looked at me speculatively. ‘Got 'em
on you?'

‘Don't be stupid. Give me a week, or perhaps –'

‘Bird-in-the-hand Jablonsky, pal, that's me. Get
going. Looks like being a nice night's work.'

He cut my bonds and we went out through the
garage. Jablonsky had a hand on the girl's wrist
and a gun about thirty inches from my back. I
couldn't see it, but I didn't have to. I knew it
was there.

Night had come. The wind was rising, from the
north-west, and it carried with it the wild harsh
smell of the sea and a cold slanting rain that splattered
loudly against the rustling dripping fronds of
the palms and bounced at an angle off the asphalt
pavement at our feet. It was less than a hundred
yards to where Jablonsky had left his Ford outside
the central block of the motel, but that hundred
yards made us good and wet. The parking-lot, in
that rain, was deserted, but even Jablonsky had
backed his car into the darkest corner. He would.
He opened both offside doors of the Ford, then
went and stood by the rear door.

‘You first, lady. Other side. You're driving, Talbot.'
He banged my door shut as I got in behind the
wheel, slid into the back seat and closed his own
door. He let me feel the Mauser, hard, against
the back of my neck in case my memory was
failing me.

‘Turn south on the highway.'

I managed to press the proper buttons, eased
through the deserted motel courtyard and turned
right. Jablonsky said to the girl: ‘Your old man's
place is just off the main highway? Right?'

‘Yes.'

‘Any other way of getting there? Back streets?
Side roads?'

‘Yes, you can go round the town and –'

‘So. We'll go straight through. I'm figuring the
same way as Talbot figured when he came to the
La Contessa – no one will be looking for him within
fifty miles of Marble Springs.'

We drove through the town in silence. The roads
were almost deserted and there weren't half a
dozen pedestrians to be seen. I caught the red
both times at the only two sets of traffic lights in
Marble Springs, and both times the Mauser came
to rest on the back of my head. By and by we were
clear of the town and the rain sheeting down in
a torrential cascade that drummed thunderously
on the roof and hood of the car. It was like driving
under a waterfall and the windscreen-wipers
weren't built for driving under waterfalls. I had
to slow down to twenty and even so I was all but
blind whenever the headlights of an approaching
car spread their whitely-diffused glare over the
streaming glass of the windscreen, a blindness
which became complete with the spraying wall
of water that thudded solidly against screen and
offside of the body as the approaching cars swept
by with the sibilant whisper of wet rubber on wet
roads and a bow-wave that a destroyer captain
would have been proud to own.

Mary Ruthven peered into the alternating glare
and gloom with her forehead pressed against the
windscreen. She probably knew the road well, but
she didn't know it tonight. A north-bound truck
growled by at the wrong moment and she almost
missed the turn-off.

‘There it is!' She grabbed my forearm so hard
that the Ford skidded for a moment on to the
shoulder of the road before I could bring it under
control. I caught a glimpse through the rain of a
dimly phosphorescent glow on the left and was
fifty yards beyond before I stopped. The road was
too narrow for a U-turn so I backed and filled until
we were heading the other way, crawled up to the
illuminated opening in first and turned in slowly.
I should have hated to turn in there quickly. As
it was, I managed to pull up a few feet short of
a six-barred white-painted metal gate that would
have stopped a bulldozer.

The gate appeared to be at the end of an almost
flat-roofed tunnel. On the left was a seven-foot
high white limestone wall, maybe twenty feet
long. On the right was a white lodge with an
oak door and chintz-covered windows looking out
on to the tunnel. Lodge and wall were joined by
a shallowly curved roof. I couldn't see what the
roof was made of. I wasn't interested in it anyway:
I was too busy looking at the man who had come
through the lodge door even before I had braked
to a stop.

He was the dowager's dream of a chauffeur. He
was perfect. He was immaculate. He was a poem
in maroon. Even his gleaming riding boots looked
maroon. The flaring Bedford cord breeches, the
high-buttoned tunic, the gloves perfectly folded
under one epaulette, even the peak of the cap were
all of the same perfect shade. He took his cap off.
His hair wasn't maroon. It was thick and black and
gleaming and parted on the right. He had a smooth
brown face and dark eyes set well apart, just like
his shoulders. A poem, but no pansy. He was as
big as I was, and a whole lot better looking.

Mary Ruthven had the window wound down,
and the chauffeur bent to look at her, one sinewy
brown hand resting on the edge of the door. When
he saw who it was the brown face broke into a
wide smile and if the relief and gladness in his eyes
weren't genuine he was the best actor-chauffeur
I'd ever known.

‘It
is
you, Miss Mary.' The voice was deep, educated
and unmistakably English: when you'd two
hundred and eighty-five million bucks it didn't cost
but pennies extra to hire a home-grown shepherd
to look after your flock of imported Rolls-Royces.
English chauffeurs were class. ‘I'm delighted to see
you back, ma'am. Are you all right?'

‘I'm delighted to be back, Simon.' For a brief
moment her hand lay over his and squeezed it.
She let her breath go in what was half-sigh, half-
shudder, and added: ‘I'm all right. How is Daddy?'

‘The general has been worried stiff, Miss Mary.
But he'll be all right now. They told me to expect
you. I'll let them know right away.' He half-turned,
wheeled, craned forward and peered into the back
of the car. His body perceptibly stiffened.

‘Yeah, it's a gun,' Jablonsky said comfortably
from the rear seat. ‘Just holding it, sonny – gets
kinda uncomfortable sitting down with a gun in
your hip pocket. Haven't you found that yourself?'
I looked and, sure enough, I could see the slight
bulge on the chauffeur's right hip. ‘Spoils the cut
of the Little Lord Fauntleroy suit, don't it, though?'
Jablonsky went on. ‘And don't get any funny ideas
about using yours. The time for that's past. Besides,
you might hit Talbot. That's him behind the wheel.
Fifteen thousand dollars on the hoof and I want to
deliver him in prime condition.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about, sir.'
The chauffeur's face had darkened, his voice was
barely civil. ‘I'll ring the house.' He turned away,
went into the small lobby behind the door, lifted
the phone and pressed a button, and as he did so
the heavy gate swung open silently, smoothly, of
its own accord.

‘All we need now is a moat and a portcullis,'
Jablonsky murmured as we began to move forward.
‘Looks after his 285 million, does the old
general. Electrified fences, patrols, dogs, the lot,
eh, lady?'

She didn't answer. We were moving past a big
four-car garage attached to the lodge. It was a
carport-type garage without doors and I could see
I had been right about the Rolls-Royces. There
were two of them, one sand-brown and beige, the
other gun-metal blue. There was also a Cadillac.
That would be for the groceries. Jablonsky was
speaking again.

‘Old Fancy-pants back there. The Limey. Where'd
you pick that sissy up?'

‘I'd like to see you say that to him without that
gun in your hand,' the girl said quietly. ‘He's
been with us for three years now. Nine months
ago three masked men crashed our car with only
Kennedy and myself in it. They all carried guns.
One's dead, the other two are still in prison.'

‘A lucky sissy,' Jablonsky grunted and relapsed
into silence.