Hell Is Too Crowded - Jack Higgins [42]
When he paused at the little wicker gate, Haras was already halfway along the path. Brady raised his foot and stamped twice at the gate, splintering the flimsy wood around the lock. As the Mauser coughed again, he was through and crouching as he ran between the gravestones.
Light still drifted out through the great windows, staining the thickening fog in vivid colours and he dodged behind a high tomb and listened. There was no sound and after a moment or two, he moved between the gravestones, keeping his head down, skirted the base of the tower, and paused.
The organ was playing again, muted and far away. Brady could feel the sweat on his face. The drive stretched before him, the gate to the street stood open. He moved forward and Haras stepped out from behind a flying buttress ten yards away, the lamplight glinting on his spectacles.
The Hungarian had obviously circled the church from the other side. As he raised the Mauser, Brady stepped back into the darkness at the base of the tower and started to climb the network of steel scaffolding.
Within a few moments, the fog had swallowed him and he made good progress, swinging expertly from pole to pole. Within a couple of minutes, he heaved himself up on to a narrow catwalk and realized there was no farther to go.
He stood there, ears strained for the slightest sound. There was a long silence and a cold wind lifted through the fog, chilling him so that he shivered despite himself.
He started to work his way along the catwalk and then suddenly, a board creaked and Haras said softly, "I know you're there, Brady."
The Mauser coughed, the bullet whispering away into the night and Brady moved back carefully, removing his raincoat at the same time.
As he got the coat off, his foot caught against a length of iron piping which rolled across the catwalk and disappeared over the edge.
Haras moved forward quickly, arm outstretched. He fired once, the bullet ricocheting from a steel stanchion, and Brady tossed the raincoat into his face. The Hungarian gave a muffled cry of alarm, staggered back, and stepped off the end of the catwalk into space. For one frozen second he seemed suspended in mid-air and then the fog swallowed him up.
Brady's hands were shaking and his shirt was damp with his sweat, but without hesitating, he went over the edge of the catwalk and started to climb down.
Haras lay on his back in the path, a good fifteen or twenty yards from the base of the tower and the old priest knelt beside him. He looked up as Brady approached.
"Is he dead?" Brady said.
The old man nodded. "I'm afraid so."
The Hungarian's eyeballs had retracted and he stared sightlessly up at Brady, blood on his mouth. "He killed a woman a few minutes ago," Brady said. "Back there in what used to be the sexton's old house."
The old priest got to his feet slowly. "You mean Mrs. Gordon? But why?" He moved closer and stared up into Brady's face and something clicked. "You're Matthew Brady, aren't you? You're the man the police are looking for. I saw your picture in the paper tonight."
Brady turned and walked away quickly. Once in the street, he started to run.
A few moments later, he was driving away.
(10)
MIKLOS DAVOS lived in Mayfair, he got that much from the directory of the first phone booth he came to. When he went back to the car, his hands were still trembling and he lit a cigarette before driving away.
By now the old priest would have got in touch with the police and they would know that he was on the loose in London. Once they had connected the deaths of Jane Gordon, her mother, and Haras, the hunt would be up with a vengeance.
He had only one chance. To get to Davos, to squeeze the truth out of him, because he was the only person left on earth who knew the real facts.
As he took the car expertly through the heavy traffic, he tried to remember what he knew about Davos. It wasn't very much.
He was of Hungarian extraction, which explained the link-up with Haras. A strange