The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [49]
He had not actually expected to find a message, had he? So why should he feel so let down?
The train came, and he began the voyage back to the village by the sea. With every mile, he pushed away a growing conviction that he needed to be heading out of Holland, not settling more deeply into it.
Chapter 25
Peter James West looked down at the figure in the chair. Curious, he thought, how small the dead become.
“He put that knife right in your hand,” Gunderson said in astonishment. “Never occurred to him you might use it.”
“Remarkable, considering how ruled Brothers was by his imagination.”
“Deluded to the end, he was.”
The two men glanced at each other, a quick and unspoken dialogue passing between them.
You’d better believe it’s occurred to me, Gunderson’s eyes said.
So you’ve told me, replied West.
Which is why I also let drop about that little insurance policy I set up. Just in case you ever think I’m no longer useful.
But West turned away before Gunderson could see his reply: Yes, and I’m glad you mentioned that letter, my friend, since it allowed me to take care of it. It wouldn’t do, to leave that sort of thing lying about.
The criminal classes were such refreshing employees: Money and fear were what men like Gunderson understood. Of money, it took surprisingly little to purchase muscle and a modicum of brain-power. One had only to remember that money might buy service, but not loyalty: For that, one required fear.
After tonight, Gunderson would think twice about betrayal.
West took off his suit coat and gloves, then rolled up one sleeve of his shirt, methodical as a surgeon, before retrieving the knife. Blood welled, but, without the heartbeat to propel it, there was neither gush nor splatter. It was a lesson to remember: A quick death leaves little mess. He wiped the blade on the victim’s trouser leg, then pulled a clean handkerchief from Brothers’ breast pocket to finish the job, tucking the scrap of linen back into place when he was finished. He held the vicious blade to the light.
“I understand he thought this to be meteor iron.”
“That’s what he said.”
“One might almost believe him. It’s a handsome thing.” West bent again to free the scabbard, then slid the knife into the leather and the whole into his coat pocket. “You failed at the aeroplane, then.”
“Looks like. I thought I’d hit it, but I haven’t heard anything about it coming down. Have you?”
“No. Never mind, it was a slim chance and not our last. Do we know if the woman was in it?”
“MacAuliffe heard that she and the child were both in the ’plane.”
“Leaving the men to their fishing boat, I suppose. Any idea how much nosing around she got up to before she left Orkney?”
“Far as I know, none at all. There wasn’t a word of her between the time she and the American landed and when they took off.”
“Good.”
“However, Brothers left his passports behind. In that hotel he had MacAuliffe set fire to the week before.”
“What, he and Adler were staying there?”
“That’s right.”
“Idiot. Well, the passports are clean, never mind. What about the others in Orkney?”
“What about them?”
“Don’t act the imbecile, Gunderson, it doesn’t suit you.”
“They’re still breathing, if that’s what you mean.”
“Was that wise?”
“Tiny place like that, three bodies would’ve been noticed—getting rid of MacAuliffe and his woman might’ve been explainable, but adding to it the doctor who patched Brothers together seemed risky. I didn’t think you’d want a trail of bodies pointing at you.”
“What about the telegram I sent?”
“Burned.”
“Perhaps we ought to consider the telegraphist as a fourth candidate for attention. A clever investigator might ask all kinds of questions, and find it odd that a man like MacAuliffe would send a wire to London.”
And the brother, Sherlock, was nothing if not clever. And tenacious.
“So you want me to go back up there and take care of them all?”
“Not yet,” West said. Gunderson tried to hide his uneasiness, but