The Thousand Faces of Night - Jack Higgins [54]
O'Connor's lips were blue and a line of foam appeared on his mouth. His eyes rolled and he managed to focus them on Marlowe with difficulty. A half-smile appeared on his face and he said faintly, 'You damned fool. You've got to . . .' His eyes swivelled upwards and his head fell limply to one side.
Jenny O'Connor pushed past him as Marlowe stood up, and dropped on her knees beside her uncle. She placed her ear to his chest and listened for several seconds. When she got up there was an expression that was almost triumph on her face. 'He's dead,' she said. 'I knew that heart of his wouldn't last much longer.'
All at once Marlowe felt completely deflated. He stumbled to the cocktail cabinet and splashed brandy into a glass. He poured it down his throat in one clean gulp, and coughed as the liquor burned its way into his stomach.
There was a mirror hanging on the wall and he looked at his reflection and felt apart from it as if it was someone he did not know - had never known. A hand slipped over his shoulder and a warm body was pressed against him. 'This is it, darling,' Jenny said. 'This is what I was talking about. You and me together. We could have everything we wanted.'
He turned, brushing her away as one might a fly, and looked at O'Connor lolling horribly in the chair. 'My God,' he croaked, 'you don't even bother to bury your dead, do you?'
She stared at him, frozen-faced, and he turned and lurched through the door, leaving her there with her dead uncle in her lovely room, surrounded by beautiful things.
It was an appalling drive back to Litton. The rain was falling so heavily that visibility was reduced to ten or fifteen yards and the windscreen-wipers were almost useless.
The cobbles in the farmyard were flooded with rain, and when he jumped down from the truck the water mounted over his shoes, chilling him to the bone. He stood in the hall and peeled off his wet jacket, and then he was conscious of the utter quiet. He stood quite still, his face lifted a little, nostrils moving slightly like some animal that scents danger.
'Mac!' he called. 'Where are you?' His voice echoed hollowly in the uncanny silence.
He mounted the stairs, two at a time, and turned along the landing. 'Mac!' he shouted, and threw open the door of their bedroom. He paused in the doorway, his jacket slipping from his fingers and gazed around him in bewilderment.
The room was a complete shambles. The bedding was scattered in every direction and the mattress had been slashed open exposing the horse-hair stuffing. Every drawer was pulled out and his personal belongings had been emptied on to the floor.
He turned quickly and went downstairs. The kitchen looked as it usually did, except that the fire was out in the old-fashioned grate. He stood in the doorway and his eyes moved slowly over everything.
A shudder ran through him and he moved forward and dropped on one knee beside the table. There was a pool of blood on the floor.
At that moment the telephone rang sharply, its harsh clamour shattering the silence. He ran along the corridor, fear gripping him by the vitals, and lurched into the sittingroom. He snatched up the receiver. 'Hallo, Marlowe here. Who is that?'
The line crackled a little and a voice that was vaguely familiar said, 'Hallo, Hugh, old man. So glad you've got back. This is the fifth time I've phoned during the past hour.'
Marlowe swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice steady. 'Who is that?' he said.
A gay laugh drifted along the line. 'Don't you recognize me, old man? Now really, I'm quite hurt. This is Faulkner speaking.'
Marlowe closed his eyes for a moment and his hand tightened convulsively over the phone. 'How the hell did you find me?'
'Never mind that, old man,' Faulkner told him. 'The point is, we've already visited your present residence and found you out. However, we did find a young lady and a coloured gentleman, and suggested they might like to keep us company for