Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [99]
I stuck to the shrubbery as long as I could, but I was still ten yards from the gate when I had to leave the path and step out into the open. One hand in my pocket, the other in my bag, I strode briskly towards the gate. One of the weeders sat back on his haunches as I passed him and gave me a curious look. I gave him a pleasant nod and managed not to break into a run. My back felt exposed, as if it had been stripped not only of clothing but of skin. My neck muscles ached as I fought the impulse to look over my shoulder.
The pedestrian door was locked. I had expected that, but I had hoped there would be a simple bar or bolt. No such luck. There wasn’t even a visible keyhole. The damned thing was probably electronically controlled, like the main gates. I heard the gardener call out; from the inflection it must have been a question. ‘Don’t you know you’re supposed to check out before you leave, you rude person?’ or ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, lady?’
I strolled on without replying, but the next demonstration of interest was too emphatic to ignore. The bullet hit the steel panel of the big gate with a ringing crack. Obviously it was time I stopped fooling around. I took the gun out of my bag, squatted down, pressed the barrel against the metal box at the base of the nearest column, and squeezed the trigger a few times. The position was unstable and my legs were as unsteady as my shaking hands. The recoil toppled me over onto my back. The next bullet whistled through the empty space where my head would have been if I hadn’t fallen over. The son of a bitch must be using a rifle. No hand weapon could have been so accurate at that distance.
The control box was a mess of smoking, ragged metal and the gate was ajar. So far so good, but I wouldn’t get far unless I could delay pursuit. I looked back. The man with the rifle had stopped shooting and started running. He was still some distance away, but the gardener wasn’t. I could see the whites of his eyes, so I stood up and pointed the gun in his general direction. He was no hero; with a yell he dived into the nearest bush. With an answering yell – I was beginning to lose my famous cool by that time – I dived through the door and ran . . . straight into a pair of grasping arms.
Eyes blurred, ears ringing, on the ragged edge of hysteria, I punched him in the stomach. My fist bounced off a surface as resilient as a beach ball. He staggered back, pulling me with him, and we fell onto the seat of a waiting vehicle which took off with a scream of tyres and a stench of burning rubber. The door flapped wildly until someone slammed it.
He’d fallen on top of me again. I stared up into the face in such intimate proximity to my own and burst into tears. ‘Schmidt! Oh, Schmidt, God bless you, what the hell are you doing here?’
Schmidt’s eyes were overflowing too, but only, as he was careful to explain, because I had hit him in the solar plexus. As soon as we had untangled ourselves he put an arm around me and pressed me to his stomach. ‘Put your head on my shoulder, little darlin’,’ he said tenderly. ‘All will be well. Papa Schmidt is on the case.’
That set me off again and Schmidt had to lend me his handkerchief and tell me to blow my nose like a good girl. The cab took a screeching turn into an alley hardly wider than the one I had traversed earlier that day and went careening along, scraping the walls on both sides.
‘What’s he doing?’ I gasped.
‘Eluding pursuit.’ Schmidt’s happy grin stretched from ear to ear and from moustache to double chin. Leaning forward, he tossed a handful of bills onto the front seat and shouted something in Arabic. The driver let out a whoop and roared across an intersection filled with traffic.