Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [96]
‘Her brother . . .’
‘Brothers. Two of them.’ After a brief pause he said resignedly, ‘The fat’s deep in the fire now, so I may as well abandon reticence. Or have you enough clues to reason it out for yourself? Two brothers, a strong streak of homicidal mania, and those bright, empty brown eyes . . .’
It was true; I’d only known one other person with eyes of that unusual golden brown. When I first met him, in Stockholm, I had thought him a gorgeous specimen of Nordic manhood, built like a Viking, and tall – really tall. It’s hard to find men who are six inches taller than I am. I had been prepared to overlook the fact that Leif’s sense of humour was practically nonexistent, but when I found out he was Max’s boss and one of the gang, I sort of lost my girlish enthusiasm.
John had been responsible for Leif’s death. In this case my objection to murder had been overcome by the fact that Leif had been trying to kill me, and would undoubtedly have succeeded if John hadn’t intervened.
‘You didn’t kill Georg,’ I said, watching his hands twist and press. ‘Or did you?’
‘No. His cellmate did him in, rather messily, last year. However, since I was partially responsible for sending him away she has some justice on her . . . Ah. There we are.’
He handed me the pins.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked: ‘I know – out. How?’
‘Any ideas?’ John peered cautiously through the slit in the opening door.
‘My room. I want to get my purse.’
‘You won’t need a purse if we don’t make it out of here,’ was the depressing response.
‘My room has a balcony. Someone is sure to spot us if we go through the house.’
‘Point taken. Come on, then.’
My door was locked too. John left the key in place after he had turned it.
I offered him the lock picks. ‘If they find the door is still locked, they may not look in here.’
‘Once they discover we’ve gone they’ll look everywhere.’ He headed for the balcony. ‘You might have mentioned it’s a thirty-foot drop,’ he said, returning.
‘I assumed you knew.’ We were both whispering. Footsteps had passed my door without stopping, but I had a feeling they’d soon be back. ‘Knot some sheets together.’
‘Trite, but worth a try. Now what the hell are you doing?’
‘Looking for my bag. Maybe I put it in the wardrobe.’
I’d been expecting it, but I started convulsively when it came – a wordless, genderless shout of rage, hardly muted by the heavy door. The response was just as audible. ‘You two cover the doors. They may not have left the house.’
I recognized that voice, though it had been several years since I’d heard it. I froze, my fingers clutching the strap of my bag. John grabbed me around the waist, trying, as I thought, to pull me towards the balcony. Instead he lifted me, shot me into the wardrobe, and closed the door.
And locked it. I couldn’t imagine how, I hadn’t seen a key or a keyhole, but when I shoved at the damned thing it didn’t budge. Then I stopped shoving. I also stopped breathing. The door of the room had burst open.
Maybe they’d look under the bed first. The wardrobe would certainly be next, there was no place else to hide, and they were obviously thorough, well-organized chaps. And while they searched for me – and found me – John would have time . . .
He had time. He was as agile as a cat; he could have dropped from the balcony and taken his chances on breaking a rib or two. I would have risked it, given the alternative. He didn’t. I stood there in the dark, wincing and biting my knuckles and calling myself names as I listened to what was happening. It didn’t last long. They were three to one.
And one of them was Hans, Max’s large, slow-witted associate. I discovered this after I had realized the interior of the wardrobe wasn’t completely dark. The pierced openings in the grillwork admitted light. A couple of them were big enough to give me a clear view.
Fortunately I was too short of breath to cry out, or I might have done so when I spotted