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Very cautiously I began to lever down with my right hand and pull with my left. I moved

up slowly. My head and shoulders came up above the ledge. I began to lean forward as my

chest touched the edge of the ledge. I hung like that, nearly done, my heart pounding, blood

singing in my ears. After a while I collected enough strength to climb another couple of

inches. I dragged up one knee and rested it on the ledge. Then, with a frantic effort, I heaved

forward and was on the ledge, flat on my back, aware of nothing but the pounding of my

heart and the rasping of my breath.

“Vic!”

Kerman’s voice floated up the funnel of the crevice.

I made a croaking noise and crawled to the edge.

“Are you all right, Vic?”

His voice sounded miles away: a faint whisper out of the darkness. Looking down I saw a

pin-point of light waving to and fro. I had no idea I had climbed so far, and seeing that light

made me dizzy.

“Yeah,” I shouted back. “Give me a minute.”

After a while I got my breath and nerve back.

“You can’t do it, Jack,” I shouted down to him. “You’ll have to wait until I can get a rope.

It’s too tricky. Don’t try it.”

“Where will you get the rope from?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find something. You wait there.”

I turned around and sent the beam of the flashlight into the darkness. I was only about thirty

feet below the cliff head. The rest of the way was easy.

“I’m going now,” I shouted down to him. “Hang on until I get a rope.”

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I practically walked up the next thirty feet, and came up right beside the ornate swimming-pool. Above me was the house. A solitary light burned in one of the windows.

I set off towards it.

IV

The verandah, when I got there, was deserted, and the swing lounging chair looked

invitingly comfortable. I would have liked to have stretched out on it and taken a twelve-hour

nap.

A standard lamp with a yellow and blue parchment shade was alight in the big lounge. The

casement doors leading from the lounge to the verandah stood open.

I paused at the head of the verandah steps at the sound of a voice: a woman’s voice, out of

tune with the still, summer night, the scent of flowers and the big yellow moon. The voice

was loud and shrill. Maybe it was angry, too, and the edges of it were a little frayed with

suppressed hysteria.

“Oh, shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” The voice was saying. “Come quickly. You’ve talked

enough. Just shut up and come!”

I could see her in there, kneeling on one of the big settees, holding the telephone in a small,

tight-clenched fist. Her back was turned to me. The light from the lamp fell directly on her

beautifully-shaped head and picked out the tints in her raven-black hair. She was wearing a

pair of high-waisted, bottle-green slacks and a silk shirt of the same colour, and made the

kind of picture Varga likes to draw. She was his type: long legged, small hipped, high

breasted, and as alive and as quick as mercury.

She said, “Do stop it! Why go on and on? Just come. That’s all you have to do,” and she

slammed down the receiver.

I didn’t think the situation called for stealth or super-refined cunning, and I wasn’t in the

mood to play pretty. I was leg-weary and bruised and still short of breath, and my temper was

as touchy as the filed trigger of a heist man’s rod. So I moved into the room without

bothering to tread quietly. My footfalls across the parquet floor sounded like miniature

explosions.

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I saw her back stiffen. Her head turned slowly. She looked over her shoulder at me. Her big

black eyes opened wide. There was a pause in which you could have counted a slow ten. She

didn’t recognize me. She saw what looked like an overgrown sailor in tattered white ducks

with a rip in one trousers knee, a shirt any laundry would have returned with a note of

complaint and a face that had more dirt on it than freckles.

“Hello,” I said quietly. “Remember me? Your pal, Malloy.”

She remembered me then. She drew in a deep breath, pushed herself off the settee and

stood firmly on her small, well-shaped feet.

“How did you get here?” she asked, her face and voice were as expressionless as the ruffles

on her shirt.

“I climbed the cliff. You should try it sometime when you run out of excitement,” I said,

moving into the room. “It’s good for the figure, too; not that there’s anything wrong with

yours.”

She bent her thumb and stared at it; then she bit it tentatively.

“You haven’t seen it yet,” she said.

“Is the operative word in that sentence ‘ yet’ ?” I asked, looking at her.

“It could be. It depends on you.”

“Does it?” I sat down. “Shall we have a drink? I’m not quite the man I was. You’ll find my

reflexes act better on whisky.”

She moved across the lounge to the cellaret.

“Is it true about the cliff?” she asked. “No one has ever climbed it before.”

“Leander swam the Hellespont, and Hero wasn’t half as good looking as you,” I said

lightly.

“You mean you really climbed it?” She came back with a long tumbler full of whisky and

ice. It looked a lot more tempting than she did; but I didn’t tell her so.

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