Bloody Passage - Jack Higgins [2]
I said in French, "Now put it down very carefully like a good boy and clasp your hands behind your neck."
I knew he was going to shoot by the way his right shoulder started to lift, which was a pity because he didn't really leave me much choice.
He turned, crouching, to fire from the hip and Simone screamed. Having little choice in the matter I gave him both barrels in the face, lifting him off his feet and back over the edge of the dike into the reeds.
The marsh came alive again, birds rising out of the reeds in alarm, calling to each other, wheeling endlessly. Simone stood there transfixed, her face very white, staring down at the body. Most of him was submerged, only the legs from the knees to the feet encased in the rubber waders floated on the surface.
The next bit wasn't going to be pleasant, but it had to be done. I said, "I'd go back to the Landrover if I were you; this won't be nice."
Her voice was the merest whisper and she shook her head stubbornly. "I'd rather stay with you."
"Suit yourself."
I handed her the shotgun, got down on my hands and knees, secured a firm grip on each ankle and hauled him up on to the dike. Simone gave an involuntary gasp, and I didn't blame her when I saw his face, or what was left of it.
I said, more to get her out of the way than anything else, "Bring me the rug, there's a good girl."
She stumbled away and I opened the jacket and searched him, whistling softly between my teeth. It didn't take long, mainly because there was nothing to find. I squatted back on my heels and lit a cigarette and Simone returned. She still clutched the shotgun in one hand, the rug in the other which she handed me mutely.
As I wrapped it around his head and shoulders, I said, "Curiouser and curiouser, just like Alice. Empty pockets, no identity marks in the clothing." I lifted his hand. "Indentation in the left finger where a signet ring has habitually been worn, but no ring."
A professional all right. Stripped for action so that there would be no possibility of tracing him or his masters if anything went wrong. But I didn't say so to Simone because when I looked up, the dark eyes burned in the white face and her hands were shaking. She tightened her grip on the shotgun as if making an effort to hold herself together.
"Who was he, Oliver?"
"Now there you have me, angel."
"What did he want?" The anger in her was barely contained. It was as if she might blow up at any moment.
"I'm sorry," I said gently. "I can't help you. I'm as much in the dark as you."
"I don't believe you." The anger overflowed now, all the tension, the fear of the past ten or fifteen minutes pouring out of her. "You weren't afraid when you were out there, not for a single moment. You knew exactly what you were doing. It was as if that kind of thing was your business and you were too good. Too good with this!" She brandished the shotgun fiercely.
I said calmly, "It's a point of view, I'll give you that."
I knelt down beside the dead man, heaved him over my shoulder and stood up. She said quickly, "What are you going to do? Get the police?"
"The police?" I laughed out loud. "You've got to be joking."
I bent down and picked up his Lee Enfield then walked along the dike toward the Landrover. There was a patch of bog amongst the reeds on my right; black viscous mud. The sort of place that might be five feet deep or bottomless. When I tossed him in he slid beneath the surface instantly. There was a bubble or two, the stink of marsh gas. I threw the Lee Enfield after him and turned.
Simone was standing watching me, still clutching the shotgun, a kind of numbed horror on her face. Thunder rattled like distant drums again, overhead this time, and the rain which had threatened all day came with a rush, hissing into the reeds.
It was somehow symbolic, I suppose, for with a sudden fierce gesture Simone tossed the shotgun over my head, out into the reeds. She started to cry bitterly, shoulders shaking and I put my arms about her.
"It's all right," I said soothingly. "Everything's