Fear is the Key

I'd forgotten that only about two inches of my face was visible. I turned down the collars of my oilskin and overcoat and took off my hat. My hat had become no better than a sponge, my hair was wet and plastered all over my head but for all that I don't suppose it was any less red than normal. The tightening of Kennedy's mouth, the suddenly still expressionless eyes told their own story.

"Talbot," he said slowly. "John Talbot. The killer."

"That's me," I agreed. "The killer."

He sat very still, watching me. I suppose a dozen different thoughts must have been running through his mind, but none of them showed, he had as much expression in his face as a wooden Indian. But the brown intelligent eyes gave him away: he could not quite mask the hostility, the cold anger that showed in their depths.

"What do you want, Talbot? What are you doing here?"

"You mean, why am I not high-tailing it for the tall timber?"

"Why have you come back? They've had you locked up in the house, God knows why, since Tuesday evening. You've escaped, but you didn't have to mow anyone down to escape or I would have heard of it. They probably don't even know you've been away or I'd have heard of that too. But you've been away. You've been out in a boat, I can smell the sea off you and that's a seaman's oilskin you've got on. You've been out for a long time, you couldn't be any wetter if you'd stood under a waterfall for half an hour. And then you come back. A killer, a wanted man. The whole set-up is screwy as hell."

"Screwy as hell," I agreed. The whisky was good, I was beginning to feel half-human for the first time in hours. A smart boy, this chauffeur, a boy who thought on his feet and thought fast. I went on: "Almost as screwy a set-up as this weird bunch you're working for in this place."

He said nothing, and I didn't see why he should. In his place I don't think I would have passed the time of day by discussing my employers with a passing murderer. I tried again.

"The general's daughter, Miss Mary. She's pretty much of a tramp, isn't she?"

That got him. He was off the bed, eyes mad, fists balled into hard knots and was half-way towards me before he remembered the gun pointing straight at his chest. He said softly: "I'd love you to say that again, Talbot — without that gun in your hand."

"That's better," I said approvingly. "Signs of life at last. Committing yourself to a definite opinion, you know the old saw about actions speaking louder than words. If I'd just asked you what Mary Ruthven was like you'd just have clammed up or told me go jump in the lake. I don't think she's a tramp either. I know she's not. I think she's a nice kid, a very fine girl indeed."

"Sure you do." His voice was bitter, but I could see the first shadows of puzzlement touching his eyes. "That's why you scared the Me out of her that afternoon."

"I'm sorry about that, sincerely sorry. But I had to do it, Kennedy, although not for the reasons that you or any of that murderous bunch up at the big house think." I downed what was left of my whisky, looked at him for a long speculative moment, then tossed the gun across to him. "Suppose we talk? "

It took him by surprise but he was quick, very quick. He fielded the gun neatly, looked at it, looked at me, hesitated, shrugged then smiled faintly. "I don't suppose another couple of oil stains will do those sheets any harm." He thrust the gun under the pillow, crossed to the table, poured himself a drink, filled up my glass and stood there waiting.

"I'm not taking the chance you might think I am," I began. "I heard Vyland trying to persuade the general and Mary to get rid of you. I gathered you were a potential danger to Vyland and the general and others I may not know of. From that I gathered you're not on the inside of what's going on. And you're bound to know there's something very strange indeed going on."

He nodded. "I'm only the chauffeur. And what did they say to Vyland? "From the way he spoke the name I gathered he regarded Vyland with something less than affection.

"They stuck in their heels and refused point-blank."

He was pleased at that. He tried not to show it, but he was.

"It seems you did the Ruthven family a great service not so long ago," I went on. "Shot up a couple of thugs who tried to kidnap Mary."

"I was lucky." Where speed and violence were concerned, I guess, he'd always be lucky. "I'm primarily a bodyguard, not a chauffeur. Miss Mary's a tempting bait for every hoodlum in the country who fancies a quick million. But I'm not the bodyguard any longer," he ended abruptly.

"I've met your successor," I nodded. "Valentino. He couldn't guard an empty nursery."

"Valentino?" He grinned. "Al Grunther. But Valentino suits him better. You damaged his arm, so I heard."

"He damaged my leg. It's black and blue and purple all over." I eyed him speculatively. "Forgotten that you're talking to a murderer, Kennedy?"