Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [98]
‘I am doing you that favour. I would be in great trouble if it were known I had connived at your escape. Catch the first plane to Cairo and leave the country as soon as you are able.’
‘You know I won’t do that.’ A sensible woman wouldn’t have wasted her breath arguing with him. Vicky Bliss went right on talking. ‘You asked me a question once, remember? I didn’t know the answer then. I do now. I love him, Max. Please . . .’
Max took a step towards me. ‘Are you crying?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘I would if I thought it would do any good,’ I said, sniffing.
‘It would not. Honestly, I cannot comprehend why an intelligent woman like you should behave this way. You ought to be thanking me for . . . Stop that!’
‘I can’t,’ I snuffled. The conversation, between a courteous criminal and a weeping wardrobe, might have seemed funny to a detached observer. I was not detached, and Max was clearly uncomfortable. I couldn’t figure him out. I never had been able to figure him out. Only in fiction do you find cold-blooded villains with one soft streak in their flinty hearts. But if he didn’t mean to let me go, why had he sent Rudi and Hans away?
‘Fifteen minutes,’ Max repeated. ‘There is no use trying to follow, they will have left the house by now. She is still here, however, and she would like nothing better than to get her hands on you. You can do him no good by allowing yourself to be recaptured.’
He thought he was being so clever. I said, between gulps, ‘I can’t get out. He locked me in.’
‘But there is no key. How . . .’ He came to the wardrobe. ‘Ah, I see. That is good, it will hold you just long enough. Auf Wiedersehen – or rather, goodbye, Dr Bliss.’
I threw a few more sobs at him as he walked to the door. His shoulders twitched but he didn’t stop or turn around.
I waited a few minutes, just in case. When I tried the door again it opened without difficulty. The bolt was part of the carved ornamentation. It wasn’t concealed, just inconspicuous, unless you were looking for it. I could have forced it if I had thrown myself against the door hard enough. Max had saved me the trouble. It would have been a pity to damage such a beautiful antique.
John had pulled the bedclothes apart before he was interrupted. In case I haven’t mentioned it, the sheets were linen, fine as silk. They knotted nicely. I took them out onto the balcony. My window overlooked the garden. I could hear sounds of activity at the back of the house – my friends the movers, I assumed. On this side there was no one in sight, not even a gardener, but I kept an eye peeled as I tied the end of one of the sheets around the wrought-iron railing. I slung my bag around my neck before I climbed over the balcony and took hold of the makeshift rope.
I have done some rock climbing and had become rather vain about my ability to lower myself smoothly down a chimney or rock face. I soon discovered that a bedsheet is not a good substitute for ropes and pulleys. My thigh muscles wouldn’t work the way they were supposed to, the sheet kept stretching, and the bag kept banging against my chest. I didn’t dare discard it, though. It’s bad enough to be on the run. Being on the run sans money, passport, and other useful items complicates the problem even more.
I had to drop the last ten feet, not because the linen gave out but because my thighs lost the struggle. Scrambling up, I scuttled along the side of the house, ducking under the windows, till I reached the corner.
Two of the gardeners were at work on the flowers that lined the driveway. Kneeling, their backs to me and the house, they appeared to be weeding the beds. Their dusty faded robes blended with the shadowed foliage and their white turbans looked like cauliflower. There were no vehicles in the driveway. The gates at its far end were closed. So was the door next to the gates. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I had anticipated it would be there, for the use of visitors who came and went on foot.
I had two choices. Well, actually, I had quite a few, but turning myself in didn’t