Silhouette in Scarlet

Chapter Nine

THERE WAS A purposefuless to Max’s procedures that morning that had been lacking before. Until I saw what he could do in the way of organization. I did not fully realize how uncharacteristically indecisive his earlier actions had been. For the past twenty-four hours he had just been marking time. If he hadn’t known it before, one look at the pasture would have told him that random digging was no use. I could think of several reasons why he had been willing to waste time, and I didn’t like any of them. I disliked his brisk, angry efficiency even more. Today was the day. If John’s revelations turned out to be a red herring, Max would pack it up and leave – after he had finished his other business. We had at the most about twelve hours.

John had reached the same conclusion. His seemingly erratic behaviour had one purpose – delay. He was hoping for darkness – twilight, rather – before making his attempt to escape. I was pessimistic about his chances. Twelve hours is a long time.

Nagged by Max, Georg collected the equipment he proposed to use. It wasn’t impressive; the stakes and string and other implements resembled gardening tools, and were, in fact, taken from the shed that served that function. At Max’s pressing invitation I joined the group and we left the house.

The sky threatened, and a chill breeze denied the approach of midsummer. I demanded a coat, and Max let me go up to get it. When I returned he glanced at the purse I had slung over my shoulder, but did not object; he had searched it himself and knew I had no weapon.

When we reached the pasture, everyone stared expectantly at Max. The wind that ruffled John’s flaxen locks and blew my hair into my eyes didn’t stir a strand of Max’s grey wig. He took a paper out of his breast pocket, studied it, and turned a minatory eye on John.

‘Fifteen paces due west from the large boulder at the northeast corner. Fifty paces due south. Sixteen paces west from the dead pine on the southeast corner, fifty paces due north from there. Is that it?’

‘I told you it was rough,’ John said defensively.

It was straight out of ‘The Gold Bug’ or some other fiction. Perhaps Max had not been raised on the classics. He was sceptical, though; as his chilly gaze remained fixed on John, the latter shivered exaggeratedly and wrapped both arms around his body. ‘The Second set of measurements is obviously a cross-bearing,’ he added.

Georg shook his head and made disapproving noises. ‘It is very inaccurate. How long is a pace? There are too many boulders; which is the correct one? And I cannot believe that none of you had the intelligence to bring a compass.’

Mine was in my purse at that very moment, disguised as the butt end of a flashlight. At least one of Gus’s boats must have direction-finding apparatus, but since none of the gang had thought of that, I didn’t see any reason to bring it up.

The men scattered, looking for landmarks. There was no dead pine at the southeast corner. Finally someone found a stump and concluded that must be the remains of the tree. Georg sat down on the stump, took out notebook and pencil, and began making calculations, muttering, ‘If we take it that true north lies that way . . .’

The proceedings had a certain macabre humour, but I was in no mood to enjoy them. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I told Max. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘Stay away from the hut,’ Max said curtly. His eyes were on John, who, closely followed by Rudi, was pretending to look for a boulder. They wouldn’t let him out of their sight from now on.

The hut didn’t interest me. Gus wasn’t there. The Austrian had been following me the day before. Max had ordered him to give the impression that he was guarding the hut if I seemed to be interested in it, but he had had to run to get there before I did.

I was almost certain I knew where they were keeping Gus, but almost wasn’t good enough. If I was wrong, there might not be time for a second guess. So I went into the forest.

It had been eerie before, in the dimness of twilight. Under a stormy sky, with wind lashing the upper branches, it was a perfect setting for a horror film. One expected to see the Frankenstein monster come lurching along between the trees.

The search didn’t take long, since I was looking for a man-made structure. I found a few blocks of dressed stone, tumbled down by the growth of tree roots that had heaved them to the surface. Man had left his mark, but not in the recent past The blocks might have lined a grave.

When I emerged from the trees onto the headland above the water, the wind blew my hair back like a banner. It was a north wind, carrying the snowy breath of the high mountains. Thirty feet below, waves attacked the tumbled rocks of a shallow bay. The cliff wasn’t sheer; in fact, it could hardly be called a cliff – just a steep decline, half rock, half earth, with clumps of rough weeds clinging to pockets of soil. I wondered if Gus could get down, with his game leg. It was the only place I had seen that offered possible hiding places, among the wave-washed rocks. As for swimming – the steel-grey water, laced with dirty white froth, was not enticing.

I started back. I must have been midway through the belt of trees before I suddenly realized that I wasn’t nervous any longer. The shadowed aisles between the trunks promised shelter from wind and storm, not hiding places for monsters. The moan of the boughs overhead stirred my blood instead of chilling it. The trees might guard the crumbling bones of the ancient dead, but the spirits of those antique warriors and herdsmen held no terror for me. They had accepted me as one of their own.

I arrived at the dig in the middle of a loud, abusive argument. The digging had not yet begun, and the first words I heard, from Max, explained the delay.

‘What use are your mathematics?’ he shouted at Georg. ‘You are wrong. Your cross-bearings come nowhere near one another.’

‘I made a slight error’ Georg muttered. ‘If you will try these new calculations – ’

Max slapped his notebook from his hand. ‘The man who found the reliquary did not use exact measurements. We will imitate his method. We will pace off –’

‘But you don’t know the length of his stride,’ Georg protested, with some justification.

‘No matter. You – no, you, Willy.’ The Austrian started nervously when Max pointed at him. ‘Go to the boulder. Then walk normally. Count as you go and stop when you reach fifteen.’

It had taken them almost an hour to arrive at this common-sense solution. There is an adage dear to strategists: Divide and conquer. Confuse and conquer is an even better technique.

‘I think there’s a cemetery in the woods,’ I said brightly.

‘Later, later.’ Max waved me to silence

‘I think I’ll go back to the house.’

‘Later. Are you at the boulder, Willy? Good. Start walking. One – two – three – ’

‘I could make some coffee,’ I said. ‘Mr Smythe looks as if he could use a stimulant.’

I shouldn’t have mentioned his name. Max had become sensitized; the syllables stung him like a hornet.

‘No!’ he cried, turning to me. ‘Don’t speak to him; don’t go near him. Be quiet. You are distracting me. Curse it, Willy; how far have you got?’

Willy was standing stiffly at attention, arms at his sides. ‘Fifteen, sir.’

‘Good. You are sure you counted correctly? Then turn – a right-angle turn. Fifty paces.’

Willy started off in measured slow step, like the Marines at a funeral procession. The formal deliberation of his movements had a hypnotic effect; I found myself counting in chorus with Max: ‘Forty nine, fifty.’ Max shrieked, ‘Stop!’ with such shrill vehemence that Willy leaped into the air.

‘Stand still,’ Max shouted. ‘Don’t move. If you stir one inch, under any circumstances whatever, I will skin you alive. Now.’ He turned a measuring eye on the remainder of his crew. According to their temperaments they shrank or stiffened under his survey. Hans giggled nervously.

‘Not you,’ Max said, scowling at him. ‘Rudi, you are the same height. The tree stump. Go to it.’

Rudi plodded off through the stubble. ‘You are welcome to stay here, Dr Bliss,’ Max said, without looking at me. ‘But you must not try to speak privately with Smythe. Is that clear?’

‘It’s clear, yes. But I don’t see why – ’

‘Dr Bliss, you cannot suppose – ’

‘I am here, Max,’ Rudi called.

‘I see you are, cretin. Stay there.’ Max took my arm and led me away from the others. ‘Dr Bliss,’ he said earnestly, ‘don’t suppose that I am unaware of your intentions. You will not give up attempting to save the life of that wretched man until the deed is done. I understand your principles, and I admire them. I don’t want to see you hurt. Do you believe that?’

‘Oddly enough, I do believe it,’ I admitted.

‘However, I am a man of business. I must obey . . . That is, I must obey the dictates of professional necessity. If you interfere with my plans, I will remove you from my path. Don’t force me to do that.’

‘What do you expect me to say, Max?’ I demanded. ‘“Okay, thanks a lot, you just go right ahead and slaughter him”’? You do what you have to do, and I’ll do the same.’

Max raised his arms and let them fall. ‘I have tried.’

‘Right. But . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘It goes against the grain,’ I said. ‘But – thanks for the warning, Max.’

He blinked. ‘Why don’t you go back and get something to eat? It must be close to lunchtime.’

‘Damned if I will.’

‘I promise I won’t touch him while you are gone.’

‘No.’ I sat down, cross-legged. ‘I want to watch.’

Max snapped out an expletive, turned on his heel, and addressed Rudi. ‘Start walking.’

‘In which direction, Max?’

Another argument ensued. Max suggested one direction, John another (which Max instantly dismissed), and Georg offered to calculate the spatial errors that would result from a mistaken bearing of five or ten degrees. Finally Max did what I would have done. He told Rudi to use Willy, still rigid as a flagpole in the middle of the pasture, as his focal point, and walk straight towards him. Somewhat to my surprise the resultant path took Rudi along the line John had indicated. When Rudi finished counting, he and Willy were only a few feet apart.

Max looked pleased. ‘It appears to work. The error is no more than might be expected.’

‘But your method is riddled with errors,’ Georg complained, in a pettish tone. ‘You assume too much; you compound your errors by – ’

‘Be quiet,’ Max ordered. ‘The rest of you – dig.’

Up to this point John had been uncharacteristically quiet, his only contributions consisting of brief comments and suggestions. Max hadn’t forbidden direct communication, so I said to John, ‘Are you all right? You look pale.’

‘Christ, no, I’m not all right. I’m sick.’

‘Serves you right,’ Max said, without turning. ‘Those disgusting eggs of yours have unsettled my stomach as well.’

‘I could make a delicious stew,’ John muttered, swaying like a birch in a breeze. ‘Let me go back and lie down for a bit, Max, and I’ll cook – ’

‘I allowed you to prepare breakfast because I was watching every move you made,’ was the curt reply. ‘If you are bored, you can give Hans help with the digging. Your upset stomach will be cured soon enough.’

I honestly don’t believe he knew what he was doing. It was all part of the day’s work to him. But anticipation is agonizing in itself, and offhand references to a man’s imminent demise don’t settle his nerves. John turned a shade greener, and I said angrily, ‘Lay off, Max. He’s going to pass out.’

‘No,’ John said wanly. ‘Not until I have to.’ Max took this as a reference to the moment of permanent collapse that was rapidly approaching and gave John a sour smile. I suspected another significance, and took due note of the suggestion.

The digging went on apace. I counted heads. The only one of the gang who was missing was Pierre. Leif had disappeared. I had not noticed his absence, which is some indication of my state of nerves. When I asked Max where he was, I was told he had gone to get water. Georg was thirsty.

Thirst wasn’t Georg’s only problem. He sat staring at his notebook, pretending to make his useless calculations. His fingers were shaking badly. No wonder his mathematics had been inaccurate.

Before long Leif returned, carrying a thermos. He started to offer me the first drink; Georg snatched the cup out of his hands. ‘What took you so long?’ he demanded, wiping dribbles off his chin with his sleeve. ‘A man could die of thirst before you helped him. Give me more.’

Leif obliged, with an apologetic glance at me. ‘Perhaps you should rest for a while, Georg,’ he suggested.

‘The hell with resting. I’m needed here. These morons are digging in the wrong place.’

‘I think they aren’t digging deep enough,’ I offered.

Max bit his lip. ‘Dig deeper,’ he ordered.

As the pit deepened, so did Max’s impatience. When Hans, whose excavation techiques were obviously unpractised, tossed a shovelful of dirt into Max’s face, the latter lost his temper.

‘Enough, enough,’ he sputtered, spitting out mud. ‘This is madness. Smythe – ’

‘It’s around here somewhere,’ John insisted. ‘I told you the estimates were rough. What about there? Dig there.’

He indicated one of the pits that had been dug the day before. Max sneered. ‘A naive effort, Smythe. We have explored that area.’

‘Maybe you didn’t dig deep enough,’ I said. With a look that eloquently expressed his opinion of my contribution Max thrust a shovel into John’s reluctant hands. ‘You think it is there? You think we did not dig deep enough?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ John protested. ‘She was the one – ’

‘Dig.’

‘Max, old chum, I’d love to, but my wrist – ’

‘Dig!’

The least I could do was add a few more seconds to the delaying action. John was obviously getting desperate.

‘He can’t dig with a sprained wrist,’ I said. ‘Give me the shovel, John.’

We played tug of war, mutually protesting, until Max intervened. John started digging, ostentatiously favouring his right arm. As he deposited the third spadeful to one side, I saw something shine.

Max saw it at the same moment. Our cries blended. ‘Wait. Stop digging.’

The other diggers, sweating even in the chilly air, were happy to assume the order was directed at them. When Max fished the object out of the dirt and held it up, all eyes were upon him. He let out a little hiss of breath and a slow smile curved his lips.

‘It appears I did you an injustice, Smythe.’

The brooch would be a good three inches in diameter when the crumpled gold was straightened. The tortuous patterns of Anglo-Saxon design formed writhing abstract animal forms around the rim, encircling a rough polished stone. Deep in its garnet depths a sullen glow of crimson glimmered. It was a lovely thing, quite typical of its period. I would have expected nothing less. John dealt with only expert forgers.

I didn’t doubt for an instant that John had planted the brooch during the night. I was afraid to look at him. Max was as tickled as a kid who sees a fat, bearded man in a red suit coming down the chimney, after he has decided there is no Santa Claus.

‘I told you,’ John said.

‘Get out of the way.’ Max snatched the shovel from him. In his exuberance he almost went so far as to dig himself. Recollecting himself in time, he handed the shovel to Rudi. ‘Carefully’ he cautioned. ‘Carefully.’

‘Shouldn’t use spades,’ Georg muttered thickly. ‘Bad technique. Trowels, brushes . . .’

Leif, who had pressed forward as eagerly as the others at the seductive gleam of gold, turned anxiously to his brother.

‘Georg, you are not well. Come back to the house. I will help you.’

Georg struck his arm aside. ‘Don’t need your help. Leave me alone, damn it.’ He marched off.

‘Maybe you had better go with him,’ I said.

Leif shook his head. ‘He is angry with me. I can’t help him now. But later – I will take him to a hospital, a sanitarium. They will cure him.’ He looked at me as if expecting agreement. All I could say was ‘I hope so.’

‘They will cure him! He will resume his career, he will succeed. And I will make sure no other devils like this one corrupt him.’

He turned to John, who returned his glare with bland indifference. ‘I wouldn’t bank on it, Leif,’ he said. ‘Once a junkie, always a junkie.’

‘I ignore your cheap taunts,’ Leif said. ‘You know the saying: He who laughs last . . .’

‘Tactless,’ John said. ‘Uncouth and tactless, Leif. An honest, law-abiding chap like you shouldn’t revel in murder, even mine.’

The diggers took the hole down almost six feet before they gave up. They weren’t disheartened, however; as Max himself admitted, the treasure trove might have been scattered to some degree. They started another excavation beside the first.

According to my watch, it was after one o’clock. In another nine or ten hours the light would be as dim as it was going to get. I gave the quiescent clouds a critical stare. A good wet, dark, noisy thunderstorm would be a big help.

The discovery of the brooch had whetted appetites that had become jaded, and prolonged the search. Yet I held to my original belief that Max would leave the island that night. There would be no darkness to veil his departure, but the chance of being observed would be lessened if he waited till the townspeople were asleep. He would have to halt the excavation by late afternoon in order to complete his preparations for departure – packing, repairing the boat, killing John – and by that time he would be extremely exasperated, for he would find nothing. There was no treasure trove, at least not in the spot where he was digging – only John’s fake brooch.

All of which meant that I didn’t dare wait until suppertime to use the contents of the bottle with which John had thoughtfully provided me. His assumption that I would know what it was, and what to do with it, was flattering, but I wished he had taken the time to drop a few hints. I had sneaked a peek at it after breakfast; it was a crystalline white powder with no perceptible odour or other distinguishing characteristics. I didn’t taste it. For all I knew, it might be cyanide or some other deadly poison, the slightest nibble of which would send me rolling around the room with my heels touching my head.

I was not keen on the idea of becoming a mass poisoner. However, I thought it unlikely that John would carry a lethal substance around with him. He wasn’t the type to swallow cyanide to avoid torture; he’d go on squirming and scheming until the last breath. More likely the powder had come from Georg’s pack – coke, heroin, morphine, God knows what. How John had covered up the theft I could not imagine; presumably he had managed to make it look like an accident, or carelessness on Georg’s part. Wherever it had originated, it was obviously not meant for my own use, so I had to assume he wanted me to bestow it on the thugs.

Shortly thereafter I was relieved to find my deductions confirmed. John began twitching and clutching his stomach. ‘I’m in agony,’ he moaned. ‘It’s probably a ruptured spleen.’

‘Probably hunger pangs,’ I said, and was rewarded by a quick glance of approval. I went on, ‘Maybe Max will let you go back to the house and make yourself a sandwich. You can make one for me while you’re at it.’

‘You’d ask a dying man – a man suffering from extreme inanition – to make you a sandwich?’

‘Your playacting is becoming banal, Smythe,’ Max said. ‘You read too many sensational novels. It is only in fiction that warders are tricked into carelessness by a pretence of illness.’

However, the mention of food had its effect on the diggers. They had been hard at it for several hours, and it was exercise of a type to which they were not accustomed. The wind had dropped to a breathless hush that was more threatening than a gale. Rudi finally summoned up enough nerve to ask Max if they could take a break. ‘We cannot work all day without food, Max,’ he added sullenly.

‘Don’t expect me to do the cooking,’ John said, between groans.

‘Dr Bliss and I will be the chefs,’ Max said. ‘Rudi, take that section down another foot, then stop. Bring Smythe back with you – and watch him.’

Max spoke only once during the walk. ‘I am tempted to lock you in your room this afternoon, Dr Bliss.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘I cannot trust you,’ Max explained, in an accusing voice. ‘You might try to escape.’

Any comment on this seemed superfluous. We proceeded in silence.

Though the deep freeze and the pantry shelves were bulging, supplies of perishables like milk and eggs were getting low. The island must have a regular delivery service from the mainland for items of that sort – another reason why time was running out for Max. He couldn’t kidnap the milkman and the baker when they made their rounds; someone would wonder what had happened to them. Any visit from an outsider carried the risk of discovery.

I poured the rest of the milk into a pitcher and put it on the table. Max pulled out a chair and sat down. He had no intention of helping me – he just wanted to keep an eye on me. ‘Sandwiches,’ he said. ‘Cheese, ham – nothing complicated.’

‘We’re almost out of bread.’

‘There is more in the freezer.’

‘It’s frozen solid.’

‘Then unfreeze it.’

I put a couple of loaves in the oven and switched it on. As I moved back and forth between pantry and sink, refrigerator and stove, I had ample opportunity to dispose of the white powder. It would take only a second or two to dump it into – into what? Not the milk; the pitcher was at Max’s elbow. Besides, he and Hans were the only members of the gang who drank milk.

‘What about some soup?’ I suggested. ‘There’s tomato, chicken noodle – ’

‘No soup.’

I don’t think he was really worried about my slipping something into the soup; his objection was pure reflex, instinctive professional caution. Sugar? I thought. No good. Some of them took their coffee black. I plugged in the gleaming chrome-and-porce-lain device Mrs Andersson used for making coffee, and tested the bread. It was pre-sliced; I was able to separate the slices and spread them on the counter to finish thawing. As I did so, I heard voices outside. The diggers were back. I had to make up my mind in a hurry. With all of them milling around the kitchen, my chances of being detected rose a hundredfold.

So I put it in the butter. It was soft, since Max had not let me clear away after breakfast. It also showed signs of having been licked. ‘Wonderful for hair balls,’ I said aloud, mixing furiously.

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing,’ If I hadn’t been so rattled, I wouldn’t have spoken; for all his fondess of animals, Max might be one of those fastidious souls who would refuse to eat food a cat had tasted. The cat had clearly been on the table; there wasn’t a scrap of bacon left, and several plates were suspiciously clean.

I started putting the sandwiches together. No self-respecting Swede would have touched them; they were slapped into shape with such speed that the contents leaked over the sides. I took care not to let the butter ooze, though. It was strangely lumpy-looking.

Grimy, sweaty, and dishevelled, the diggers filed in and took their places. Hans grabbed a sandwich, and my heart stopped with a grinding thud as he pried back the top piece of bread and peered at what was inside.

‘Gibt es keinen Senf?’ he inquired.

I didn’t trust myself to speak. I got the mustard out of the refrigerator and handed it to him.

It was not one of my more elegant table settings. I hadn’t bothered to put plates down, just a few glasses and a dozen bottles of beer. Hans reached for the pitcher of milk. John got it first, and pulled it towards him. Rudi asked for a bottle opener. Turning to get it, I heard a crash, a splash, and a cry of outrage from Max. John had dropped the pitcher. The milk was soaking into Max’s hand-stitched suede shoes.

‘Weak wrist,’ John whined, nursing it.

So everybody drank beer. I made sandwiches like an assembly line. I had to do something; every time one of them took a bite I expected a complaint or a puzzled look.

They had almost finished eating when Leif entered. ‘Have a sandwich,’ I said compulsively.

‘No, thank you. My brother is ill. We must have a doctor.’

Several of the men exchanged cynical grins, but Max looked up sharply. ‘Ill? What do you mean?’

‘I insist you look at him,’ Leif said. ‘At once.’

His peremptory tone made Max frown, and he added, in a more conciliatory voice, ‘It may be food poisoning; I cannot tell. Would it not be advisable for you to investigate?’

They went out of the room. The men went right on eating. The suggestion of food poisoning didn’t bother them; they had diagnosed Georg’s illness sight unseen, and – I thought – correctly. John sat slumped in his chair. He had not touched the sandwiches. I nudged him and offered another plateful.

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘you prefer plain ham.’

He took one. Our eyes met for an instant, then he looked away.

Max and Leif came back. I looked up interestedly, but no explanations were forthcoming. Max only said, ‘Back to work.’

There was some subdued grumbling, especially from Hans; five sandwiches and four bottles of beer had not filled his huge stomach. John had to be dragged to his feet. He kept complaining that he was sick, but as he stumbled out, roughly assisted by Hans, Leif said with a contemptuous smile, ‘His nerve has failed. It was to be expected. He has not even the courage of a cornered rat; he can only cringe and whimper.’

I made a protesting sound. Leif’s gloating smile faded. ‘I am sorry, Vicky. But if you could see Georg as he is now, you would understand why I cannot pity the man who corrupted him.’

‘It’s not food poisoning, then?’

‘No, I only said that to force Max to look at him. It is – what you think. He has run out of the drug. During the night he neglected to close the box, and it was spilled.’

‘A little cold turkey,’ I said meditatively. ‘Who knows, it may be the making of him.’

‘Now you sound like that swine, Smythe. I hate to hear you so cynical, Vicky.’

Max reappeared at the door. ‘Are you coming?’

‘I will stay with my brother,’ Leif said, in a voice that dared Max to object. ‘Let her stay too. She is distressed – ’

‘No, I’ll go. I’d rather.’ I edged away from him.

‘You cannot guard him forever,’ Max said.

The knife was on the counter, an inch from my hand. My fingers itched, but I was afraid to take the chance. I said, ‘I’m coming, Max. Let’s go.’

The next hour was the worst of the entire affair. My stomach was churning. I didn’t know how long it would take for the powder to work, or what the effects would be – if any. Maybe I had spread it too thin. John sat on the ground, his head bent and his hands limp. I paced, biting my nails. The clouds darkened. The wind rose. The only effect lacking was a werewolf howling in the trees.

I expected Hans to show the first symptoms, since he had eaten and drunk more than the others, but perhaps his mammoth body could absorb more. I saw nothing out of the way until Rudi let out a howl of pain. He had jabbed himself in the foot with his spade. Dropping the tool, he lifted the injured member with one hand and promptly toppled over.

Max was on the spot instantly. ‘What is it?’

Rudi rolled over, grimacing with pain. ‘I couldn’t help it, Max. I am no labourer. I am exhausted.’

Max swept the rest of the crew with a suspicious eye. However, the next to go was not one of his men, it was John. With a startled cry he half rose and then pitched over onto his side.

‘Faking,’ said Max, nudging him with his toe.

A genteel trickle of blood oozed out of John’s left nostril. I peeled back one of his eyelids. Now that the time had come, my hands were quite steady.

‘He’s not faking. Look – dilated pupils, bleeding from the nose – He’s got a concussion. He’ll die if he doesn’t get help.’

‘I will, of course, send one of my men for a doctor immediately,’ Max said, with awful sarcasm. ‘Do be sensible, my dear. It is a far easier death than the one he faced.’

‘At least let me do what I can,’ I begged. ‘Lying on the cold ground like that . . .’ I peeled off my sweater and tucked it around John. ‘Give me your coat,’ I said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dr Bliss.’

‘Please – ’ I rose and approached the diggers. A couple of them looked a little dazed. ‘Please,’ I repeated. ‘He needs to be kept warm.’

It was Hans, the big, good-natured oaf, who responded. ‘I am too warm,’ he mumbled. ‘You can have my sweater.’ He did look warm. Perspiration beaded his forehead.

In the last split second I made a final check of the dispositions I had noted earlier. A man can’t dig and hold a gun at the same time. Three of them wore shoulder holsters, including Max. Rudi’s weapon – a cute little sawed-off shotgun – was on the wheelbarrow, atop the other tools. I waited until Hans had the sweater up over his head before I acted. My shrill, banshee scream stunned them for another essential second. It also told John that I was making my move.

The only one whose hand made it to the butt of his gun was the swarthy Italian. I aimed at him. In case he suffered from delusions about the incompetence of the female, I said warningly, ‘I was brought up on a farm, boys. Don’t chance it.’

There were no heroes in that crowd. Any such aspirations died when they realized mine wasn’t the only weapon pointing at them. Max was on the ground, out cold, and John had his gun.

He wasted no time complimenting me. After he had relieved the men of their surplus armaments, he gestured at Max. ‘Pick him up.’

The order was directed at Hans, but that unfortunate innocent was still hopelessly entangled in the folds of his sweater. His pale blue eyes peered over it with vague wonder.

Rudi and Willy carried Max. They were all looking groggy. The combination of beer and dope hadn’t knocked them out, but it had slowed their reflexes just enough to make the crazy plan feasible. Urged by guns and exhortations, the procession made its way to the hut in the trees. It took John only a few seconds to open the padlock, with the heavy needles in my pocket sewing kit. He bundled the prisoners inside and snapped the lock. Then, for the first time, he addressed me.

‘Where is Gus?’

‘The barn. I thought you were supposed to look for him.’

‘I had too many other things to do last night. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t take my word for it.’

He had a point. I said, ‘Hadn’t we better collect the rest of the artillery?’

‘Yes, right. We can’t carry that lot around; it’s too bulky. Over the cliff?’

‘Sounds good to me – ’ I broke off with a gulp. The figure looming up in front of me looked like an ambulatory tree trunk, featureless against the lighter grey of the open pasture beyond.

‘Vicky! Thank heaven, you are all right I heard you scream; I thought . . .’ Leif held out his arms. I stayed where I was.

‘Put your hands up, Hasseltine,’ John said, edging away.

‘Don’t be afraid.’ Leif’s voice was contemptuous. ‘I would not risk myself for you, but I am happy you have succeeded. Now I can take my brother to a doctor. Come, let us return to the house.’

Not unnaturally, he kept an eye on John’s gun, turning as the latter continued to move sideways. The muzzle of the weapon stayed fixed on Leif’s chest, and he said impatiently, ‘Don’t be a fool, Smythe. Vicky, convince him that I – ’

I hit him across the side of the head with the barrel of the shotgun. He had a skull like a granite boulder. The blow dropped him to his knees, but he didn’t flatten out until John had pounded him a few more times, with the methodical precision of a carpenter driving in spikes.

‘That’s enough,’ I said, wincing.

John handed me the gun.

‘Keep him covered,’ he said.

Kneeling, he yanked off his belt and strapped Leif’s ankles. I contributed my belt, which he used on Leif’s wrists. He wasn’t satisfied. ‘What we need is a drum of wire,’ he grumbled. ‘Go get that heavy twine Georg was using, and be quick about it.’

By the time he finished, Leif had begun to stir and mutter.

‘Shall we put him in the shed?’ I asked. ‘Can you think of any reason why we should open that door?’

‘Actually, I can think of several good reasons why we shouldn’t. Let’s go.’