The Thousand Faces of Night. Jack Higgins

the door and leaned against it. Marlowe slipped the key into his pocket and said, ‘How the hell did you manage to follow me?’

      Faulkner sat down on the bed and fitted a cigarette into an elegant holder. ‘We didn’t need to, old man. You see, I knew something the police didn’t. The day you were arrested I had a bit of luck. A pal of Butcher’s happened to see you coming out of this place. I took the room for a couple of days, and we went over it with a fine-tooth comb. Couldn’t find a thing, but I always had a hunch about it. There had to be a connection.’

      Marlowe took out a cigarette and lit it carefully. ‘I’m surprised at you, Faulkner,’ he said. ‘You must be slipping.’ He looked quickly towards the two men at the door. Butcher was watching his every move, hate blazing out of his eyes. Harris had produced a flick-knife with which he was quietly cleaning his fingernails.

      Faulkner said, ‘Actually it was a damned ingenious hiding place, Hugh. But then you always were a cut above the average.’ He smiled and leaned forward. ‘Now come clean like a good chap and tell me where I can find the lock that key fits.’ His smile became even more charming. ‘I wouldn’t try anything silly if I were you. Butcher and Harris are praying for an excuse to cut you into pieces.’

      A quick fierce anger surged in Marlowe, and he grabbed Faulkner by the tie and jerked him up from the bed. ‘You lousy bastard,’ he said coldly. ‘Do you think I’m scared of you and your third-rate toughs?’

      Faulkner’s eyes started from his head as he began to choke, and then Marlowe was aware of a movement to his left. He released Faulkner and turned as Harris cut viciously at his face with the knife. He warded off the blow with his right arm and was conscious of pain as the knife ripped his sleeve. He caught the small man by his left wrist and with a sudden pull, jerked him across the room to crash against the wall.

      As he turned, Butcher struck at him with a heavy rubber cosh, the blow catching him across the left shoulder and almost paralysing his arm. He chopped Butcher across the right forearm with the edge of his hand and the big man cried out in pain and dropped the cosh. Marlowe turned towards the door and Faulkner pushed out a foot and tripped him so that he fell heavily to the floor. Butcher moved in quickly, kicking at his ribs and face. Marlowe rolled away, avoiding most of the blows and scrambled up. Harris was back on his feet, shaking his head in a dazed fashion. He stumbled across the room and stood beside Butcher. For a moment there was a brief pause as the four men stood looking at each other and then Faulkner pulled an automatic out of his inside breast pocket.

      Marlowe moved backwards until he faced them from the other side of the bed, the open window behind him. Faulkner appeared to be having difficulty with his voice. He choked several times before he managed to say, ‘I’ll take that key, Hugh, and you’ll tell me where the money is. I don’t want to use this, but I will if I have to.’

      ‘I’ll see you in hell first,’ Marlowe said.

      Faulkner shrugged and covered him carefully with the automatic. ‘Go and get the key,’ he told Butcher.

      The big man started forward. Marlowe waited until he was almost on him and then he grabbed the wooden chair and tossed it straight at Faulkner. In the same moment he turned and vaulted through the open window.

      He landed knee-deep in the pile of coke and lost his balance, rolling over and sliding to the bottom. He got to his feet and looked up. Butcher and Faulkner were at the window. For a moment they stared down at him and then they were pulled aside and Harris scrambled on to the windowsill. As he jumped, Marlowe turned and ran across the tracks towards some railway coaches which were standing in a nearby siding.

      The fog was thickening rapidly now and visibility was poor. He stumbled across the tracks into the shelter of the coaches and paused for a moment to look back. Harris was running well and the blade of his knife gleamed dully in the rain. Marlowe started to run again. There was a terrible pain in his side where Butcher had kicked him and blood was dripping from his left arm.

      As he emerged from the shelter of the coaches he saw a goods train moving slowly along a nearby track, gathering speed as it went. He lurched towards it and ran alongside, pulling at one of the sliding doors until it opened. He grabbed at the iron rail and hauled himself up.

      As he leaned against the door Harris appeared, running strongly, his face white with effort. As he grabbed for the handrail, Marlowe summoned up his last reserve of strength and kicked him in the chest with all his force. The small man disappeared and then the train moved forward rapidly, clattering over the points as it travelled away from London towards the North.

      For a moment longer Marlowe leaned in the opening and then he pushed the sliding door shut and slid gently down on to the straw-littered floor.

       2

      He lay face downwards in the straw for a long time, chest heaving as his tortured lungs fought for air. After a while he pushed himself up and sat with his back against a packing case.

      The wagon was old and battered with many gaps in its slatted sides through which the light filtered. Gradually his breathing became easier and he stood up and removed his raincoat and jacket. The slash in his arm was less serious than he had imagined. A superficial cut, three or four inches long, where the tip of the knife had sliced through his sleeve. He took out his handkerchief and tied it around the wound, knotting it with his teeth.

      He shivered and pulled on his jacket as wind whistled between the slats carrying a faint spray of cold rain. As he buttoned his raincoat he examined the packing cases that stood about him and was amused to find they were addressed to a firm in Birmingham. So the wheel had come full circle? He had escaped from Birmingham in a goods train five years before. Now he was on his way back again. Masters would have been amused.

      He sat down with his back against a packing case by the door and wondered what Masters was doing now. Probably making sure that every copper in London had his description. Faulkner would be doing exactly the same thing, in his own way. Marlowe frowned and fumbled for a cigarette. London was out of the question for the moment. With every crook in town on the watch for him, he wouldn’t last half an hour.

      He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and considered the position. Perhaps things had worked out the best after all. A week or two in the Midlands or the North to let things cool off and then he could return quietly and collect what he had left in the safe deposit of the firm near Bond Street.

      His fingers fastened over the key in his jacket pocket and he took it out and examined it. Twenty thousand pounds. He smiled suddenly. He had waited for five years. He could afford to wait for another week or two. He replaced the key in his pocket, pulled his cap down over his eyes, and went to sleep.

      He came awake slowly and lay in the straw for a moment trying to decide where he was. After a while he remembered and struggled to his feet. He was cold and there was a dull, aching pain in his side where Butcher had kicked him. The train was moving fast, rocking slightly on the curves, and when he pulled the door open a gust of wind dashed violently into his face.

      A curtain of fog shrouded the fields, cutting visibility down to thirty or forty yards. The cold air made him feel better and he sat down again, leaving the door open, and considered his next move.

      Birmingham was out. There was always the chance that Faulkner might have discovered the train’s destination. There could easily be a reception committee waiting. Faulkner had friends everywhere. It would be best to leave the train at some small town farther along the line. The sort of place that had a name no one had ever heard of.

      He emptied his pockets and checked on his available assets. There was an insurance card, his driving licence which he had renewed each year he had been in prison, and fifteen shillings in silver. He still had ten cigarettes left in the packet he had bought in the snack bar. He smiled ruefully and decided it was a good job he had the licence. With luck he might be able to get some sort of a driving job. Something that would keep him going until he was ready to return to London.

      The