The Faraway Drums. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ could not have been because of his conversational approach. ‘Put your gun away, Major, and get into bed. I’ve taken you at your word that you’re a liar and I don’t believe you when you say there is no plot to assassinate the King.’

      He put the pistol on a bedside table and got beneath the covers. Thinking back, it was one of the strangest interviews I ever conducted. Both of us were aware of the atmosphere around us: he in his glamorous pyjamas, I in my peignoir (even if the bowler did dampen the effect), and the wide bed itself. But I was there on business and I was determined to keep it that way.

      ‘Tell me what you really think is going on, Major.’

      He shook his head. ‘Miss O’Brady, I am what is called a political agent.’

      ‘Is that something like a ward boss? My father is one in Boston.’ I explained what my father did in the interests of democracy and the Democratic Party, which are not necessarily the same thing.

      ‘No, I don’t think there’s too much similarity. I suppose one could say I’m a cross between your Secret Service and one of your Indian agents from the Wild West.’

      ‘But that’s exactly what a ward boss is.’

      ‘Well, I’m sure your father doesn’t give away secrets to the chaps from the newspapers. Or even to you, I’ll wager.’

      ‘Not unless he’s looking for favours.’ I saw the gleam in his eye and got in first: ‘Please, Major. No more flirting. So you won’t tell me what you suspect?’

      ‘No.’ There was no badinage there: his voice was flat and emphatic.

      ‘I could write my story without your corroboration.’

      ‘If you did that and I should ever meet you again, I’d tan your bottom.’

      ‘An officer and a gentleman?’

      ‘I make no claim to the latter title. Goodnight, Miss O’Brady. Please turn off the light as you go out.’

      I was used to being dismissed, that was part of the game in my profession; but somehow the dismissal by him hurt me. I knew I had brought it on myself, but there are certain occasions when a woman wishes she could retire with dignity. I tried for that as I walked towards the door, but even then I knew that in my peignoir and derby I could not look regal or even viceregal.

      I stopped at the door and turned. ‘You and I are not finished with each other, Major. I do not give up easily.’

      ‘Nor I, Miss O’Brady. Goodnight.’

      I switched off the electric light and opened the door. The club thumped down on my bowler hat and I slumped to the floor.

      End of extract from memoirs.

      2

      Farnol leapt out of bed as the man, masked by a ragged scarf, jumped over the girl and came at him, the club in one hand and a long dagger in the other. Farnol grabbed for the gun on the bedside table, but in the gloom of the darkened room, his eyes still full of the just extinguished electric light, his hand fumbled and knocked the gun to the floor. The intruder dived across the bed at him and he flung himself back, just avoiding the swish of the dagger. He stumbled around in the unfamiliar room, bumped against a clothes-horse. He picked it up and swung it, hitting the assassin full in the face with the wooden shoulders inside his tail-coat. The man let out a gasp and staggered back and Farnol, eyes accustomed to the darkness now, went after him. The thug swung the club blindly and Farnol grunted as it grazed his ribs.

      Then the man was past him, jumping over the still prostrate Bridie in the doorway and racing out into the corridor. Farnol scrambled after him, not stopping to waste time in looking for his gun. The man appeared to know his way about the huge house. He ran along the dimly-lit corridor, out on to the gallery and down the wide stairs. Farnol, a blue silk streak, was only a few stairs behind him as they reached the entrance hall. The thug made no attempt to go out the front doors, as if he knew he might run into one of the roving picquets in the main drive. Instead he went straight down towards the ballroom. Farnol grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from a table and chased after him.

      The man was tall and thin, as tall as Farnol; and he was swift, just that much swifter than Farnol. His clothes were ragged, but he was recognizable as a hillman: the dark turban wound Pathan style, the blue scarf round his face and the sheepskin jerkin said he wasn’t from the plains.

      The next two or three minutes were like some bizarre conducted tour of the Lodge. The two men raced through the huge moonlit ballroom, skidding on the polished floor; through into the dining-room where the logs in the big fireplace still glowed; back across the hall to the drawing-room. Here the thug ran headlong into the great velvet curtain that draped its entrance; he dropped his club and tried to slash his way through the heavy cloth with his knife. Farnol caught him and grappled with him, but once again the man got away. He raced back up the stairs and still Farnol pursued him, wielding the candlestick. But the man was frantic now, drawing away from Farnol with every step. He tore down the corridor between the bedrooms. At the far end Farnol glimpsed the open window. The thug went through it without seeming to lose speed. Farnol reached the window, pulled up gasping and looked down, expecting to see the man spreadeagled on the ground below.

      But the thug had not committed suicide; once again he had shown he knew the lie of the land around the Lodge. There was a great deodar tree outside the window and Farnol saw the stout branch still going up and down from the weight of the man as he had landed on it. A moment later he saw the man run out from the black shadow at the base of the tree, race across the lawn, vault the balustrade and disappear. There was no point in shouting for the guard; they would never find the thug in the tangled growth down the steep hillside below the lawn. Farnol turned back, still holding the candlestick, and hurried back along the corridor to his room.

      Bridie was sitting up, feet spread out in front of her, back against the door, her crushed hat in her lap. She looked at him as he squatted down beside her. ‘Did you get him? I saw you gallop past.’

      ‘He got away. How are you?’

      ‘It will teach me not to go uninvited into a man’s room.’ She stood up, taking his arm; he could feel she was still shaken. ‘I’m all right, I think. I’ll have a headache in the morning.’

      He had to admire her composure. The women who had lived in these hills for years were accustomed to the regular emergency: he would have expected them to recover quickly. But Miss O’Brady was a city girl and an American one at that: he knew little or nothing about Boston or New York but he guessed that ladies there did not have to face emergencies too often. ‘I must say, Miss O’Brady, you’re not the hysterical sort, are you?’

      ‘I suppose that’s an Englishman’s compliment, is it? Thank you. No, I’m not the hysterical sort.’

      ‘Jolly good.’

      Assured that she was uninjured except for a sore head, he abruptly left her, went along to the gallery and looked down into the entrance hall. Then he came back.

      ‘I wonder where all the servants are? It’s late, but I thought someone would have heard me chasing that chap up and down the stairs. Go back to your room and lock the door.’

      ‘No. I’ll stay with you till . . . You’re worried about something.’

      She СКАЧАТЬ