The Thousand Faces of Night - Jack Higgins [35]
She led the way upstairs and cautiously opened the door of the old man's bedroom. He looked about ten years older, and his cheeks were hollow and sunken. From the sound of his heavy breathing he was asleep.
Maria gently closed the door and they went back downstairs. 'He sure doesn't look good,' Mac observed soberly.
'Everything's hit him at once,' Maria said. 'And he's facing ruin. It's a wonder he isn't dead.'
Marlowe felt desperately sorry for her. She gave a little sob and leaned on the table, her head down. He slipped an arm round her waist. 'Now then, angel. This isn't like you. Keep smiling. Mac and I are going to canvass the market gardeners this evening. We'll get another load together, perhaps even two. We'll try for London again tomorrow night.'
She smiled and wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. 'Yes, you're right, Hugh. I'm just being silly, and that won't help at all.' She squeezed his hand. 'You're so good to me - both of you.' She smiled again. 'I'll get you your meal.'
They started for Barford in one of the trucks just after seven that evening as the sky was beginning to darken. Marlowe purposely avoided the square on their way through the town, and when Mac tapped him on the shoulder he swung the truck on to a piece of waste ground and killed the motor.
It was by now quite dark and the street lamps were strung away through the darkness back towards Barford like yellow beads. The garage was three or four hundred yards farther along the road, and as they approached it a thin rain began to fall.
When they were about fifty yards away Marlowe stopped and said, 'We won't go any closer this way. You never know who's watching. Let's find a way to get round to the back.'
They tried a narrow alley that was lit with a single old-fashioned gas lamp, and stumbled along its uneven paving. It turned sharply to the right after thirty or forty yards, and continued along the rear of the garage. The brick wall was old and crumbling and about nine feet high. Mac looped his hands, and Marlowe used them as a step and scrambled up on to the wall. He reached down his right hand and heaved the Jamaican up beside him. For a little while they sat there, gaining their bearings, and then they dropped down into the yard inside.
There was an old iron fire-escape up to the second floor, and Marlowe cautiously led the way. They paused on the landing, and he tried the knob of the door. It was locked. For a moment he hesitated, and then Mac stretched out to a near-by window. A moment later he gave a grunt of satisfaction. 'It's open,' he said. There was a creak as the sash was raised, and then he climbed over the rail of the fire escape and scrambled in through the window. Marlowe followed him.
They stood in the darkness listening, and Marlowe was conscious of a peculiar smell. He frowned and sniffed experimentally, and then his brow cleared and he pulled Mac close. 'It's whisky,' he said. 'The real stuff. Can you smell it?'
Mac nodded, and led the way cautiously along the corridor. There was a door at the far end with a broken panel in it through which light streamed. He opened it carefully, and the full aroma of the whisky filled their nostrils.
The room was crowded with crates of bottles, and at the far end there were a great many barrels. Marlowe tapped one of them experimentally. 'It's full,' he observed. He moved over to a nearby table and picked up a handful of labels. 'Look at these,' he said. 'All well-known branded names.'
'But what's going on here?' Mac asked in puzzlement.
'It's a racket as old as the hills,' Marlowe told him. 'Cut liquor. They buy whisky in bulk - it may even be quite good stuff - and dilute it with water. Then they bottle it, stick a well known quality label on, and make at least two hundred per cent profit on each bottle.'
Mac frowned. 'But any drinking man can tell if good liquor's been tampered with.'
Marlowe nodded. 'I know, but this stuff is mainly for the night-club trade, and I don't mean high-class establishments either. The