Fear is the Key

"Seventy thousand bucks worth of guarding, eh?" Jablonksy said grimly. "He's safe as the gold in' Fort Knox." I caught Royale and Vyland exchanging a brief flicker of a glance as Jablonsky went on: "But I'm kind of worried about that seventy thousand. I mean, if someone finds out Talbot is here, I won't get the seventy thousand. All I'll get, with my record, is ten years for obstructing the course of justice and giving aid and comfort to a wanted murderer." He looked speculatively at Vyland and the general and went on softly: "What guarantee have I that no one in this house will talk?"

"No one will talk," Vyland said flatly.

"The chauffeur lives in the lodge, doesn't he?" Jablonsky said obliquely.

"Yes, he does." Vyland spoke softly, thoughtfully. "It might be a good idea to get rid of-"

"No!" the girl interrupted violently. She'd jumped to her feet, fists clenched by her sides.

"Under no circumstances," General Ruthven said quietly. "Kennedy remains. We are too much in his debt."

Vyland's dark eyes narrowed for a moment and he looked at the general. But it was the girl who answered the unspoken query.

"Simon won't talk," she said tonelessly. She moved towards the door. "I'll go to see him."

"Simon, eh?" Vyland scraped a thumb-nail against the corner of his moustache, and looked at her appraisingly. "Simon Kennedy, chauffeur and general handyman.'

She retraced a few steps, stopped in front of Vyland and looked at him steadily, tiredly. You could just see the fifteen generations stretching back to the Mayflower and every one of the 285 million bucks was showing. She said distinctly: "I think you are the most utterly hateful man I have ever known," and walked out, closing the door behind her. "My daughter is overwrought," the general said hastily.

"Forget it, General." Vyland's voice was as urbane as ever, but he looked a bit overwrought himself. "Royale, you might show Jablonsky and Talbot their quarters for tonight. East end of the new wing — the rooms are being fixed now."

Royale nodded, but Jablonsky held up his hand. "This job Talbot is going to do for you — is it in this house?" Genedal Ruthven glanced at Vyland, then shook his head. "Then where?" Jablonsky demanded. "If this guy is taken out of here and anybody within a hundred miles spots him, we've had it. Particularly, it would be goodbye to my money. I think I'm entitled to a little reassurance on this point, General."

Again the swift interchange of looks between the general and Vyland, again the latter's all but imperceptible nod.

"I think we can tell you that," the general said. "The job's on the X 13, my oil rig out in the gulf." He smiled faintly. "Fifteen miles from here and well out in the gulf. No passers-by to see him there, Mr. Jablonsky."

Jablonsky nodded, as though for the moment satisfied, and said no more. I stared at the ground. I didn't dare to look up. Royale said softly: "Let's be on our way."

I finished my drink and got up. The heavy library door opened outwards into the passage and Royale, gun in hand, stood to one side to let me pass through first. He should have known better. Or maybe my limp deceived him. People thought my limp slowed me up, but people were wrong.

Valentino had disappeared. I went through the doorway, slowed up and moved to one side round the edge of the door as if I were waiting for Royale to catch up and show me where to go, then whirled round and smashed the sole of my right foot against the door with all the speed and power I could muster.

Royale got nailed neatly between door and jamb. Had it been his head that was caught it would have been curtains. As it was, it caught his shoulders but even so it was enough to make him grunt in agony and send the gun spinning out of his hand to fall a couple of yards down the passage. I dived for it. I scooped it up by the barrel, swung round, still crouched, as I heard the quick step behind me. The butt of the automatic caught the diving Royale somewhere on the face, I couldn't be sure where, but it sounded like a four-pound axe sinking into the bole of a pine. He was unconscious before he hit me — but he did hit me. An axe won't stop a falling pine. It took only a couple of seconds to push him off and change my grip to the butt of the pistol, but two seconds would always be enough and more than enough for a man like Jablonsky.

His foot caught my gun-hand and the gun landed twenty feet away. I launched myself for his legs but he moved to one side with the speed of a fly-weight, lifted his knee and sent me crashing against the open door. And then it was too late, for he had the Mauser in his hand and it was pointing between my eyes.