Split Code (37 page)

I agreed, but I wasn’t going to say so. I said, ‘Why didn’t he want to come in the car then? He knew you had the Folio.’

We had reached the entrance to the moat tunnel. ‘I must say,’ said Johnson, ‘I felt rather for him at that point. He knew I had the Folio. He knew I knew he knew I had the Folio. And he was free to establish his perfect innocence by aiding, abetting and encouraging me to drive off with the said Folio without let or hindrance from Hugo. Any suspicions we might have had would have been utterly disarmed.’

‘But he
was
letting it go,’ I said. ‘He couldn’t have hoped to get it back from you after that. He didn’t know Gramps had fooled with the brakes.

I caught myself up. ‘No one fooled with the brakes,’ said Johnson patiently. ‘I had to get him to show his hand somehow, hadn’t I? And his reason for letting the Folio go was perfectly simple. He thought he had a copy. The machine you transmitted the coded lists on has a memory. He thought he had only to return to the room and make himself a print-out. But then . . . ‘

‘You said you had wiped the machines.’ I said, remembering. ‘I thought in a stupid way you meant you had turned them off safely. So he realized there wasn’t a print-out, and he’d have to pinch the original from you. And he flipping well did.”

‘Well, we’ve trapped him,’ said Johnson mildly. He seemed surprised by my vehemence. He might have said more, but someone else came up and spoke to him, and a little further on a man appeared with a rifle and showed us obsequiously through a door. I looked round and felt immediately queasy. It was the office and workshop where I had stood, with Benedict at my feet, facing that easy chair with the spiral of smoke ascending from it.

There was no one in the chair now. The room was a shambles, where men had thrown litter and overturned cases in their haste to get out, and other men had rummaged through, searching. The only people there now seemed to be Johnson’s own. One of them said, ‘We’ve located him, sir. He’s in the large storeroom. Without ammunition, so far as we can gather. Do you want to challenge him yourself?’

‘I think,’ Johnson said, ‘that after taking all the trouble, Joanna and I should have some of the fun . . . What the hell is that?’

A burst of gunfire, echoing hollowly round one of the underground rooms, died away to the sound of running feet and men’s voices. We were brought up at the door by a man with blood on his face, breathlessly reporting, ‘He seems to have got a fresh weapon, sir. We can’t see what it is, because he’s shot all the lights out.’

Johnson said, ‘Have you sent anyone else in?’ and when the man shook his head he said, ‘Well, don’t. I know the customer and you don’t. Joanna, stay behind. You, get some arc lights and cable. Set them all in the passage, but don’t switch on until I tell you. I may need back-up fire, but on no account follow me into the warehouse. This man is an exceptional shot. He can stay there and pick us all off till kingdom come if we let him.’

I said, ‘He’s got to come out some time, or starve.’

He said, ‘I know. But Panadek is a Yugoslav citizen, and we are in Yugoslavia. I want this finished tonight. It will be. He doesn’t want to lose his life any more than I do.’

I don’t know why I found that so reassuring. Or I do, but the reasons are personal. I went with the others to the doorway of the big warehouse, and saw, through the open door, how the darkness transformed it into a place of shadowy racks and benches and shelves and tables. Then there was a flash of red and a crash and the combat man behind me pulled me violently back from the threshold where the light from the passage had betrayed me.

A moment later the lights in both the adjoining passages went out and I heard the men beside me shuffle, blocking the door in the darkness. Then Johnson said, ‘All right. Let me through,’ and they parted.

We waited. Presently, within the depths of the warehouse, Johnson’s voice spoke quietly. ‘I have a gun and twenty men. You’re going to get taken anyway.’

Silence. Then, ‘No doubt,’ said Hugo Panadek’s impudent voice. ‘But we may as well have some entertainment, may we not, in the meantime? It has been one hell of a joke, my Britannic friend. It is worth one hell of a pay-off.’

The bark of Johnson’s gun drowned the last words, but did not stop them. I heard the zing of a ricochet, and then a hissing sound, like a porcupine on an airbed. Without further warning, a dozen jets of pink light leaped up from the floor of the warehouse and wavered there, lighting up all the toys on the shelving; lighting up the dark shattered lights in the roof; lighting up the figure of Johnson, flattened against a row of shelving.

I didn’t see Hugo, but I saw the spark from his gun, and heard the bang, and saw Johnson’s head jerk before the rosy lights died as if pinched by a snuffer. In the silence there was a small clatter, followed by the tinkle of broken glass.

I waited, my hands clamped round the doorpost, for the sound of Johnson falling. Instead, after a moment, he spoke, mildly. ‘You bastard,’ he said. ‘But I will say you can shoot.’ And then I realized, of course, that Hugo had merely shot off his bifocal glasses.

I had a gun. I also had perfect vision. I moved before anyone could stop me, through the door and into the warehouse. Then I halted, for I couldn’t see anything.

I could hear something, though. A trundling noise, making its way in a straight line along a distant path between racks, from the sound of it. A noise which dwindled and then oddly became louder, as if, having rounded the racks, it was now traversing the next row. The sound, still at some remove, drew level with me, passed me, and dwindled to the right again. A moment later, I heard it coming back, a little louder and nearer. This time, as it drew level, it hesitated, picked up, hesitated again, and then resuming, made its way to the left.

No one moved. The object, whatever it was, began to come back. This time it was nearer again: perhaps two rows of racks from where I was standing. And this time as it drew level it slowed down and nearly stopped.

The silence was so ghostly that I jumped with fright when a booming voice spoke suddenly from the ceiling. It came this time from a loudspeaker and was relayed there, unmistakably, by Hugo. He said, ‘How very odd. Are there two of you? I could have sworn Johnson was up by the railway track . . . I want to introduce you to Fred. Fred is one of my favourite inventions. You remember the pool bug at Cape Cod, Johnson? Fred works the same way. with a sensor bar on his nose. If there is anyone human in this room, Fred will find him. Won’t you, my pet?’

Whether spurred by his master’s voice or not, Fred had resumed his trundle and was now passing down to the right. I wondered where the microphone was that Hugo was speaking into. It not only disguised his position, it effectively covered any footsteps. On the other hand, it allowed Johnson to move as well. I wondered if he was by the railway track, and thought I might as well move that way myself, before I found Fred curled up at my feet, with Hugo no doubt behind him, if not riding howdah.

Then it occurred to me that once I was free of the racks, the sensitive Fred would merely trundle straight for me. The game was to wait until he was half-way along, and then dash out at the opposite end of my row, and as far as I could get over the warehouse. Hoping not to collide with Hugo on the way, or even Johnson, without his glasses and with his revolver.

I never did do it, because just as Fred got to the end of the row and started coming down the one next to mine there was a jangle and a buzz, and I saw that someone anyway was on the railway platform, for the trains had started to run. And very pretty too they looked in the dark, with their carriage windows flashing by, and the lights on in the stations and the signals. A troop train came into view followed by a rocket carrier. The train disappeared but the carrier halted, fizzed a little, and then without more ado, let fly a rocket.

It was, I suppose, a small firework. It burst in the air, throwing sparks and black shadows everywhere. Johnson, who had set it off, was prudently out of sight. But there, clear in my line of vision, was Hugo Panadek at the end of my row of stacking shelves, with a dark shadow at his feet which must be Fred. And I, of course, was equally plain to Hugo Panadek.

He fired without compunction straight at me, and from where I was lying on the floor, I fired back. That neither of us hit the other was due to the fact that he tripped on Fred’s cable, and that in any case, I fired at Fred. I hit him, too. I had hoped he would go up in a sheet of flame so that at least I could see where Johnson was, but he just crepitated mournfully and gave off a lot of disagreeable fumes.

A voice from the ceiling said, ‘Get out, Joanna. Panadek, I think that’s enough. In a moment I shall ask them to switch the lights on. Before you can shoot them all out, they will have you. Throw your gun down.’

So Johnson had found the microphone, which was foolhardy, for of course, Hugo knew where it was. Instead of throwing down his revolver he ran. I could hear the footsteps receding and knew he was crossing the room. I hoped Johnson had had the sense to move quickly. It came to me that now I had virtually stopped him from shooting. He would never know, when he saw or heard anything, whether it might be Hugo or me.

I wondered fretfully just how bad his sight was. It was, I said bitterly to myself, a bloody silly trade for a man with bifocal glasses.

Johnson’s mind, I suppose, was running along the same lines. At any rate his voice came again, this time without the microphone, and from somewhere on my right. He simply said, ‘Lights’, and all along the wall on our left, the white faces of high-power lamps sprang into dazzling being.

No one shot them out. No one ran. No one moved. What the lights did show up, with merciless clarity, was a closing black square on the wall by the railway. This, of course, must be the door by which Hugo had made his entry. And by which he was hoping to leave - and might leave, if the sentry at the other end was less than watchful.

Johnson reached the door just as it was closing and prised it open. It would have shut behind him if I hadn’t caught it and followed. If he hadn’t the sense to know when to give up, then I supposed I was stuck with my role as his guide dog.

I followed him into warm darkness. Behind me the heavy door closed with a series of murmuring clicks. Then, in a white searing blaze, the lights came on to show me where I was.

Not, as I thought, in a passage. But in a box: a small empty room whose walls and ceiling and floor were made of sheets of bright, glittering metal.

In front of me was Johnson. And no more than ten feet away, his gun on the floor, stood Hugo Panadek.

He was smiling. ‘If you were counting,’ he said, ‘you will know that it’s empty. May I hint that it was a fraction unfair, calling in quite so many minions? I much prefer one to one . . . or one to two: it makes little difference. You
can
see me, I hope?’

Beneath his knitted black brows, Johnson appeared to be concentrating. ‘You’re either a distant bald man or a fingerstall. There’s an armed combat expert behind the door at your back, and another at the field end of the entrance. It would be nice if you just kicked the gun out of your way and came towards me, slowly, with your hands raised, as in the movies.’

‘But it wouldn’t be so nice for me,’ said Hugo Panadek. ‘Or so much fun. I know you don’t want to take your eyes off me - you
can
see me, can’t you? - but you might ask Joanna to look up at the ceiling. It’s the very last toy, Johnson; and the switch which operates that has also locked both the doors. I can’t get out, but neither can you. And when they do get in to fetch us, I doubt very much if either of you will be interested.’

Before he had finished talking, I was gaping upwards. A trap in the ceiling had opened. I was prepared, I suppose, for something spectacular. The mouth of a machine-gun. A nozzle of gas. A spray of quick-lime or acid.

I had forgotten Hugo Panadek’s unique temperament.

Instead, there appeared in the ceiling an immense silver ball. For a moment it hovered there, in the frame of its trapdoor. Then slowly, paid out on a strong iron chain, it descended. Heavily, so that it reminded me of the weights used for house demolition. I was speculating about the unseen overhead girder that carried it, when it came to a halt, perhaps six inches, no more, from the floor; and hanging dead in the centre.

With a low rumble the trapdoor above closed itself over, leaving only an eyelet hole for the ball-chain. We looked at it, and at Hugo, who was watching us. Then across the ball, I saw Johnson make a small movement.

He had put his finger to his lips, in the universal signal for silence. His naked eyes were on mine. Their expression I couldn’t interpret. I shook my head in puzzled query, and looked at Hugo.

The room was very small. He had retreated to the wall at his back and was leaning there, with his arms lightly folded. He looked quite at ease, and also expectant. The ball hung, without moving, between the three of us. Distantly, in the silence I could hear the sound of muffled banging. It stopped, and a voice shouted, ‘Mr Johnson! Sir! Can you hear us?’

Johnson didn’t reply. I looked at Hugo. He was still smiling. When I looked at Johnson again he shook his head and again made the signal for silence. Then he opened his hands and began to speak in dumb language.

It was a long time since I used it - at school, I think. I remembered the vowels, which are easy, but not too many of the consonants. He gave me the same letters several times before I got what he was trying to say.
Don’t speak.
And then he pointed to the ball.

I knew then what he meant, and I wondered if he was right. If he was, it was Fred all over again. Except that Hugo was in the room with us, and therefore the ball had to operate on a basis to which Hugo could make himself immune. By, for example, staying silent.

I nodded to let Johnson know that I understood and he smiled, and leaning back, folded his arms as Hugo had done. Distantly, we could hear voices still, first on one side of the door and then beyond the other door, in the corridor that led to the field. I realized as Johnson’s men talked that they didn’t even know there was a space between the two doors in which three people might possibly shut themselves. They had watched Hugo run through the door from the warehouse and they had seen it close behind Johnson and myself. Now it refused to open, and when they walked down the tunnel from the field end, the passage would seem to be empty. I could hear the guard at the other end distantly protesting that no one had passed him.