The Thousand Faces of Night. Jack Higgins

into the fog in front of them and Marlowe could make out the dim shape of a house. ‘It looks like a pretty big place,’ he said.

      She nodded. ‘It used to be a farmhouse. Now there’s just a few acres of land. We run it as a market garden and fruit farm.’

      He looked up into the rain. ‘This kind of weather won’t be doing you much good.’

      She laughed. ‘We haven’t done too badly. We got nearly all the apples in last week and most of our other produce is under glass.’

      A gust of wind lifted across the farmyard, rolling the fog in front of it, and exposed the house. It was an old, grey stone building, firmly rooted into the ground and weathered by the years. On one side of the yard there were several outbuildings and on the other, a large, red-roofed barn.

      The front door was protected by an old-fashioned glass porch and outside it a small yellow van was parked. inter-allied trading corporation – barford, was printed on its side in neat black letters. Maria Magellan paused abruptly and there was something like fear on her face. She darted forward and entered the house.

      Marlowe followed more slowly. He ducked slightly under the low lintel of the door and found himself in a wide, stone-flagged hall. The girl was standing outside a door on the left through which angry voices could be heard. She flung the door open and entered the room and Marlowe waited in the hall, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and watched.

      Inside the room two men faced each other across a table. One of them was old with grizzled hair and a white moustache that stood out clearly against swarthy skin that was the colour of tanned leather.

      The other was a much younger man, powerfully built with good shoulders. His face was twisted menacingly as he said, ‘Listen you old fool. Either you come in with us or you go out of business. That’s Mr O’Connor’s last word.’

      The old man’s eyes darted fire and he slammed a hand hard against the table. His English was good but with a heavy accent and his voice was trembling with rage. ‘Listen, Kennedy. You tell O’Connor this from me. Before he puts me out of business I put a knife into him. On my life I promise it.’

      Kennedy laughed contemptuously. ‘You bloody old fool,’ he said. ‘Mr O’Connor can stamp you into the dirt any time he wants. You’re small stuff, Magellan.’

      The old man gave a roar of anger and moved fast around the table. He swung hard with his right fist, but the years were against him. Kennedy blocked the punch with ease. He grabbed the old man by the shirt and started to beat him across the face with the flat of his hand. The girl screamed and ran forward, tearing at Kennedy with her fingers. He pushed her away with such force that she staggered across the room and lost her balance.

      A cold rage flared in Marlowe and he moved forward into the room. Kennedy raised his hand to strike the old man again and Marlowe grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him round so that they faced each other. ‘How about trying me?’ he said. ‘I’m a bit nearer your size.’

      Kennedy opened his mouth to speak and Marlowe smashed a fist into it. The tremendous force of the blow hurled Kennedy across the table. He gave a terrible groan and pulled himself up from the floor. Marlowe moved quickly around the table and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. ‘You bastard!’ he said. ‘You dirty, lousy bastard.’

      And then a mist came before his eyes and it wasn’t Kennedy’s face that he saw before him. It was another face. One that he hated with all his being and he began to beat Kennedy methodically, backwards and forwards across the face, with his right hand.

      The girl screamed again, high and clear, ‘No, Marlowe! No – you’ll kill him!’

      She was tugging at his arm, pleading frantically with him, and Marlowe stopped. He stood for a moment staring stupidly at Kennedy, fist raised, and then he gently pushed him back against the table.

      He was trembling slightly and there was still that slight haze before his eyes, almost as if some of the fog had got into the room. He clenched his fists to try and steady the trembling and noticed that blood was trickling down his left sleeve again.

      The girl released her hold on him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I had to stop you. You would have killed him.’

      Marlowe nodded slowly and passed a hand across his face. ‘You did right. Sometimes I don’t know when to stop and this rat isn’t worth hanging for.’

      He moved suddenly and grabbing Kennedy by the collar, propelled him roughly out of the room and into the hall. He pushed him through the porch and flung him against the van. ‘If you’ve got any sense you’ll get out of here while you’ve got a whole skin,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you just five minutes to gather your wits.’

      Kennedy was already fumbling for the handle of the van door as Marlowe turned and went back into the house.

       3

      When he went into the room there was no sign of Maria, but her father was busy at the sideboard with a bottle and a couple of glasses. His face split into a wide grin and he walked quickly across and handed Marlowe a glass. ‘Brandy – the best in the house. I feel like a young man again.’

      Marlowe swallowed the brandy gratefully and nodded towards the window as the engine of the van roared into life. ‘That’s the last you’ll see of him.’

      The old man shrugged and an ugly look came into his eyes. ‘Who knows? Next time I’ll be prepared. I’ll stick a knife into his belly and argue afterwards.’

      Maria came into the room, a basin of hot water in one hand and bandages and a towel in the other. She still looked white and shaken, but she managed a smile as she set the bowl down on the table. ‘I’ll have a look at that arm now,’ she said.

      Marlowe removed his raincoat and jacket and she gently sponged away congealed blood and pursed her lips. ‘It doesn’t look too good.’ She shook her head and turned to her father. ‘What do you think, Papa?’

      Papa Magellan looked carefully at the wound and a sudden light flickered in his eyes. ‘Pretty nasty. How did you say you got it, boy?’

      Marlowe shrugged. ‘Ripped it on a spike getting off a truck. I’ve been hitching my way from London.’

      The old man nodded. ‘A spike, eh?’ A light smile touched his mouth. ‘I don’t think we need bother the doctor, Maria. Clean it up and bandage it well. It’ll be fine inside a week.’

      Maria still looked dubious and Marlowe said, ‘He’s right. You women make a fuss about every little scratch.’ He laughed and fished for a cigarette with his right hand. ‘I walked a hundred and fifty miles in Korea with a bullet in my thigh. I had to. There was no one available to take it out.’

      She scowled and quick fury danced in her eyes. ‘All right. We don’t get the doctor. Have it your own way. I hope your arm poisons and falls off.’

      He chuckled and she bent her head and went to work. Papa Magellan said, ‘You were in Korea?’ Marlowe nodded and the old man went over to the sideboard and came back with a framed photo. ‘My son, Pedro,’ he said.

      The boy smiled stiffly out of the photo, proud and self-conscious of the new uniform. It was the sort of picture every recruit has taken during his first few weeks of basic training. ‘He looks like a good boy,’ Marlowe remarked in a non-committal voice.

      Papa Magellan nodded vigorously. ‘He was a fine boy. He was going to go to Agricultural College. Always wanted to be a farmer.’ The old man sighed heavily. ‘He was killed in a patrol action near the Imjin River in 1953.’

      Marlowe examined the photo again and wondered if Pedro Magellan had been smiling like that when the bullets smashed into him. But it was no use thinking about that because men in war died in so many different ways. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always scared, with fear biting