Passport to Peril

Fourteen

There had to be a way out. She wouldn’t die, couldn’t die. There had to be a chance. The car — if she could get to the car, she could get away from him. The car was her only chance. But meanwhile he was coming for her, slowly, patiently, and he was going to kill her, and she had to stop him. One way or another she had to stop him.

She said, “You don’t have to kill me.”

“Don’t I? Of course I do.”

“No. No, if you kill me, then I can’t take the microfilm to Berlin for you. But if you let me live I’ll take it. Just as you planned. I’ll take it, I’ll let your men there take it from me, I’ll never breathe a word of it to anyone. I swear...”

He shook his head sadly.

“I mean it. I’ll do it, I’ll do it perfectly, you can trust me. You can stay with me in Shannon and put me on the plane yourself. I couldn’t possibly doublecross you that way because it would be easy for you to check on me. And then you could have someone meet the plane the moment it lands, and I’d give him the film right away. It would work—”

“No, Ellen.”

“But why not?”

“You could tell the pilot. Or you could slip away from me in Shannon. You’re a bright and resourceful girl, too much so for your own well-being. If only you had stayed stupid a day or two longer, then everything might have been different.”

“I wouldn’t try to get away from you. I—”

“And afterward, after it was over in Berlin, you would go straight to the American Embassy. You’d tell them names and descriptions and all sorts of things which I really don’t want them to know. The less those people know about me, Ellen, the better I like it.”

“Are you a Communist?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come now! Certainly not. I’m afraid I’m far too fond of the things money buys to dream of a world without the profit motive. As a matter of fact, Ellen, it’s possible that your scrap of film will wind up in American hands after all. It just depends who’s prepared to pay the highest price for it. The Americans, the Russians, the Chinese — they’ll all have a chance to bid against each other in Berlin. I’ll be happy to do business with any of them.”

He wasn’t even a spy for patriotic reasons, she thought. That motive she might have sympathized with, but he was involved in all this spying and killing just to make a profit. That made him somehow more frightening and bloodless than ever. She could expect no mercy from him, and she knew it now. Her only chance was the car. And her only way of getting to the car, of having an opening, was to keep him talking. As long as she kept the conversation going she would be alive, and as long as she was alive there was a chance, however slight, that he would make a slip and give her an opening.

“How did you know, Ellen? The camera? That was a foolish mistake on my part. I searched your room last night, went through your luggage. So of course I knew that you had no camera with you, but I forgot how I’d learned as much. Is that what tipped you?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“Koenig. I never said a word to you about him, and then you mentioned him out of the blue. That was when I knew.”

“Ah. Another mistake.”

“You made other mistakes, too.”

“Oh, did I?” He seemed amused. “Tell me about them. I’ll have to learn to avoid them in the future.”

She told him about the Penal Laws, how he had mixed up his history. And how he had made the mistake about Gallarus Oratory.

He nodded, interested. “An old fault of mine,” he said. “When I get into a role, I have a lamentable tendency to carry it too far. I like the sound of my own voice too much, you see. Just a frustrated actor at heart, perhaps, but I tend to overdo things. You didn’t suspect then?”

“No.” And bitterly, she added, “I trusted you.”

“You should never trust anyone, Ellen. Not even an Irish priest.”

She remembered something he had just said. “You went to my room last night.”

“Yes. It was a simple matter to walk in. No one looks twice at a priest in this country. God, how I loathe them! Like crows in their black garb. Evil crows. I was raised by Jesuits. Not in this country. On the Continent. A bunch of evil crows. A flock of them. ‘God, S.J.’ Hah!”

“Why did you go to my room?”

“To look around. And I had another errand there, child.”

“Sara Trevelyan...”

He smiled. She had never seen such a hideous smile in her life. “Sara Trevelyan,” he echoed. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Not a car accident at all, as it happens. That made a good story, don’t you think? But a bit inconvenient to arrange. It was much easier to go to her room.” He smiled the same evil smile again. “She let me in without a second thought. Why? Because I was a priest. Who would shut the door on a priest? She had no idea who I was or why I had come to her, but she let me in.”

He was lost in the memory. He held his hands out in front of her and studied them intently. “I twisted her neck,” he said slowly. “Like a chicken.”

“Oh, God!”

Still smiling, he went on, “She fought me. She struggled well for so old a person. But I have very strong hands, and I strangled her slowly, very slowly. And all the while I looked into her eyes, and they were wide-open in terror, and then, do you know, they glazed over. It’s remarkable the way that happens. The light went right out of her eyes, and the life went right out of her, and that was all. All.”

She could barely breathe. The look in his eyes, the smile, the infinite calm with which he could speak so viciously. She had never met an utterly evil man before, had never experienced such a personality at close range. Only in books or at the movies — Richard Widmark pushing an old lady’s wheelchair down a flight of stairs, that sort of thing. She had never really believed such scenes, had never honestly thought that there were people on earth who could kill in such a chilling, coldblooded fashion.

But she was standing before one now.

She said, “And David?”

“No. No, I went looking for him. He was never alone long enough. I walked home behind him, to his rooming house. I had a knife for him, a very sharp knife. But there were people in the streets.”

“Thank God!..”

“Oh, don’t give thanks, Ellen. It’s a short reprieve at best. He knows little enough, but he knows you, and that means he knows too much. Dr. Koenig will be keeping him company today, and later this afternoon or evening the knife will find its mark. But you won’t even know about it by then, will you?”

“If you kill me, how will you get the microfilm to Berlin?”

“Koenig’s woman will take it in.”

“His wife?”

“Not exactly his wife. A partner, let us say.”

“Why didn’t you have her take it in the first place?”

“I’m afraid they know her too well in Berlin. But with your passport I don’t suppose she’ll have much trouble. She fits your description rather well, you know. Doesn’t look at all like you, but a passport description isn’t a very precise thing, is it? Height and weight and that sort of thing. And passport photos never look like anyone very much, do they? It would have been more convenient to use you, Ellen. That’s why we thought of it in the first place. But” — he shook his head sadly — “you’ve made that quite impossible, I’m afraid.”

He took a step toward her. Again she backed away. His hands, his awful hands — she pictured them around poor Sara Trevelyan’s neck, squeezing, and the picture made her sick to her stomach.

“You can’t kill me.”

“Oh, but I can. I have to, you see.”

“No...”

“I’ve no choice.” He smiled that smile again. He was enjoying this. Well, let him enjoy it, she thought fiercely. As long as he talked, as long as he went on talking, she was still alive. When she stopped talking and he grew bored, she would be in danger. It was like a cat with a mouse, she thought. As long as the mouse fought and scampered and struggled, the cat went on playing with it and the mouse went on living. But as soon as the mouse ceased to struggle, the cat would grow bored with the whole affair and end the game by eating the mouse.

He was the cat and she was the mouse and he was playing with her, enjoying her fear, her desperate attempts to talk herself free. And as long as he kept enjoying the game...

But mice never escaped, she thought. That was the only trouble. The game always ended the same way, with the cat devouring the mouse. The mouse never won.

“How shall I kill you, Ellen?”

A new twist for the game. “Oh, no,” she stammered. “You have to let me live, you have to. I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll go to Berlin or disappear or hide or whatever on earth you want me to do. I’ll do anything at all.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” she said. Her hands moved, indicating her slender young body. His eyes traveled the length of her body, then moved upward again to her face.

And he began to laugh.

“Why, Ellen! I honestly think you mean it.”

“I do. Anything—”

“Shame on you, child. Seeking to tempt a holy father to indulge in the sins of the flesh. May the Lord forgive you, child.”

“Stop it!”

He roared with laughter. He came closer to her again. She backed away, and he circled to his right, hemming her in. The cliff was to her rear now. She could not back up much further or she would fall over its edge. And he was very close to her.

“But I think your charms are wasted on me, dear.” He smiled. “I’m afraid that women don’t interest me that way. The only way you can give me pleasure, dear Ellen, is by dying an interesting death.”

She shivered. He wasn’t human.

“And how shall I kill you? Help me decide.”

“Please...”

“I thought of the knife,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s a beautiful knife. It’s in the car, under the seat. A very long, very thin blade. Do you like knives, Ellen? Do you find them beautiful? A knife can be a very beautiful object, you know.”

“You’re insane!”

“Do you really think so?” The idea seemed to amuse him. “Perhaps. It’s been suggested before. I don’t let it bother me. I thought of the knife, Ellen, but I rejected it. There’s a great deal of variety with a knife. It can be fast or slow, painful or relatively painless. But I don’t think I like the knife, the more I think about it. Not for you. For David Clare, perhaps. Should I make it fast or slow for him?”

She didn’t want to answer, didn’t have the strength to answer, couldn’t stand to listen to the filth he was spewing, much less reply to it. But she knew what happened to the mouse the moment the game became dull for the cat. So she said, “You don’t have to kill him. He doesn’t know a thing, not a thing. You can let him live—”

“Oh, no. Because he knows you, and if you don’t turn up he’s going to find out why. And once he contacts the authorities, your passport won’t be much good to us, will it? No, he’ll have to die. With the knife. Quickly, I think. Why prolong it? We’re prolonging your death, Ellen, by standing here and talking about it. It’s not much fun, is it?”

“You’re horrid!”

“Horrid. That’s an interesting word. Like the little girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead. ‘When she was bad, she was horrid.’ That’s how it goes, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Could you sing it for me?”

“There’s no tune.”

“A pity. I’ve never heard you sing, Ellen. What song would you like to sing for me?”

She broke and started to cry. This seemed to delight him. He took another step closer.

“We haven’t finished talking about your death, Ellen,” he said. “Strangling, perhaps? I think that may be best. To strangle an old woman one night and a pretty young girl the next. Yes. I’ll do it very slowly and watch your eyes all the while. Yes. That’s better than shoving you over the cliff, don’t you think? I’ll do that later, after you’re quite dead, but I thought of throwing you off alive, and I don’t think that would do at all, do you? No, because there’s no guarantee. It would cripple you, but it might not kill you, and I simply can’t afford to have you left alive. This whole operation has taken very careful planning, dear. It has to be done properly, and so I think I shall strangle you after all, like your Cornish friend, and I think I’ve wasted enough time already, wouldn’t you say? I think it’s time for you to die, Ellen, and I’ll watch your eyes turn, just as I watched hers turn last night, and you’ll struggle, yes, yes you will, you’ll struggle, and you won’t really believe it’s going to happen. All the while you’ll think there’s a way out, you’ll think a bolt of lightning will come out of the clouds and strike me dead and you’ll live. You’ll invent all sorts of ways you can be saved, and while you go on dreaming of them my hands will be tightening, tightening, and I’ll be looking into your pretty eyes, Ellen, and my hands will tighten and it will hurt you, it will hurt very badly, Ellen, and then while you go on dreaming all of a sudden you will stop, everything will stop for you, the world will stop for you, Ellen, and your eyes will turn and you’ll go completely slack and you will be dead, Ellen, dear, dear child, little girl, dead—”

Just as his hands, curled like claws, reached for her, she lashed out. She ducked down and came at him in a rush, hands flailing out, her head butting him in the pit of the stomach. She took him completely by surprise — he fell, and she sprawled on the ground beside him. She scrambled to her feet, and then his hand hooked around her ankle and brought her crashing down.

“Oh, Ellen,” he said. “So you’ll make a fight of it...”

He had one hand on her ankle, the other hand higher up on her legs. She scrabbled at the ground with both hands, brought up fists full of dirt and tiny pebbles. She turned and threw the dirt at his face, and he let out a roar and rubbed furiously at his eyes with both hands. She pulled herself free and ran for the car.

But he was up and after her. He caught her, and when his cold hands touched her she almost gave up, almost quit, but something made her fight on. She spun away from him and kicked out, and he laughed and kept coming, and she kicked again and caught him in the pit of the stomach and he doubled up in pain, a moan escaping his lips.

For a moment she was frozen, almost unable to believe she had hurt him, unable to move now that the chance was hers. Then, as he was getting to his knees, she recovered herself and sprinted for the car. She almost ran around to the left-hand side, but then she remembered that the car had right-hand steering, and she got the door open and flung herself behind the wheel.

The motor was still running. She put the car in gear and pressed down upon the accelerator, and nothing happened, the motor roared but the car stayed in place. There was a moment of panic, and then she remembered the handbrake and released it, and the car leaped forward.

David, she had to find David!..

She spun the car around in a tight U-turn. She made the turn all right, but then the tiny motor coughed and died, and he was racing toward her now, and she wasn’t sure she knew how to start the car. She put the clutch in and turned the key and the starter whined and the engine caught, and he was grabbing at the door, clutching at the handle just as she fed the car gas and the car rushed forward again, pulling away from him, and when she looked in the mirror she saw him sprawled out on the road behind her, sprawled on his hands and knees while she sped away, safe, free.

She was safe.

She was alive, alive.

And he would not be able to come after her now. He had told her how deserted the road was, how days passed without another car appearing. He would be a long while on the road, and no one in Dingle would know what had happened. She could hurry back to Dingle. She could find David, somehow, and get him away from there. They would drive to Tralee and from Tralee to Shannon, and they would find someone, anyone, who could help them.

But they would have to hurry.

She checked the rear-view mirror. She could still see him, walking in the roadway behind her, covering the ground quickly in long, firm strides. He was coming after her on foot. She wanted to drive faster but didn’t dare. She was on the wrong side, it felt crazy driving on the wrong side of the car and the wrong side of the road. And the road was so narrow, and there were hills, and she was afraid, God she was afraid.

No, she told herself. No, there was nothing to be afraid of. There was plenty of time. She had got away from him, that was the important thing. She was alive and she was free of him and he would never get near her again. That was the important thing. And David was innocent, David was really in love with her, David was hers, hers, and she would find him and he would drive the car and then she wouldn’t have to do it any more, and she would be safe, she would be David’s, everything would work out—

She saw the car in the rear-view mirror, a long way back. It wasn’t fair, she thought. It wasn’t fair. Hardly any traffic at all, days going by without a car, and now there was a car coming at just this time. It wasn’t fair. She watched in the mirror as Farrell stepped easily to the side of the road and held up his hand toward the onrushing car.

Maybe it wouldn’t stop for him. Maybe...

The car slowed, stopped. Farrell opened the door, got into the car.

Of course, she thought. Of course. And she burst out into hysterical laughter, humorless and involuntary laughter. Of course. For who in Ireland would think of refusing a ride to a priest?

The car behind her began to move again Grimly, desperately she pressed down harder on the accelerator and urged the little red Triumph on toward Dingle and David.