Hell Is Too Crowded (1991) Read online

  There was no great artistry in her performance. She simply took off her clothes as if she was getting ready for bed and threw each article to the delighted crowd. As she started to unfasten her brassiere, Brady turned away. He stood there in the corridor, oblivious to the roar of the crowd, and then he remembered the maid.

  It was worth trying and he moved into the side corridor that led to the rear of the house. He opened a door and found himself in a large, well-lighted kitchen.

  The maid was sitting in front of the stove, legs stretched out, a cigarette in one hand. She turned in surprise and then a slight smile touched her mouth. "Oh, it's you. Looking for a cup of tea?"

  Brady grinned and lit a cigarette. "I wouldn't mind. A bit too noisy in there for my liking."

  She filled another cup, added milk and sugar and handed it to him. "To tell you the truth, I thought you didn't look as if you were enjoying yourself back there."

  He smiled ruefully. "The trouble is, I'm not here to enjoy myself. I'm a newspaper man. My editor told me to get an interview with Miklos Davos or else. That's why I gate-crashed the party."

  "Mr. Davos at one of his daughter's parties?" she chuckled. "That'll be the day. He never gives interviews, anyway."

  "Have you any idea where he is now?"

  She nodded. "He went down to the island this morning. Made up his mind just like that. Had us all running round in circles."

  "The island?" Brady said.

  "Shayling Island," she explained. "It's about two miles off the Essex coast near a fishing village called Harth. He has a house there."

  "What's it like?" Brady said.

  She shuddered. "Gloomy sort of place. I spent a few weeks there last summer when he had guests. It always seemed to be raining." As Brady put down his cup she got to her feet. "But you're wasting your time. He won't see you, even if you go down there."

  "Oh, you never know," Brady said lightly. "I might catch him on a good day."

  "He never has good days," she said cryptically.

  "Thanks for the tea," he said, "and the information. You've probably saved my job."

  "I wouldn't be too sure of that," she said and he grinned and closed the door.

  By now, the party had really started to fan out and there seemed to be noise and disturbance echoing from every corner of the house. He could still hear it clearly on the night air as he went down the front steps to the car and drove away.

  The fog had thickened so that at times, traffic was reduced to a crawl, but it still only took him half an hour to get to that quiet square in Kensington.

  He parked the car and went upstairs quickly. When he opened the door, the apartment was in darkness. He stood outside Anne's door for a moment, listening to her steady breathing before moving into the kitchen.

  He felt surprisingly hungry and started to make a bacon-and-egg fry. As he scooped it from the pan to plate, there was a slight noise behind him and he turned to see her standing in the doorway.

  She was tightening the cord of a housecoat, her hair straggling across her face, the eyes still swollen and full of sleep.

  "Would you like something to eat?" he said.

  She shook her head. "Just coffee."

  He poured coffee into a cup for her, strong and black with plenty of sugar and she sat on the opposite side of the table and watched him eat.

  All at once, there was an intimacy between them, a definite feeling that this was how it always should be. Brady sensed it and realized that she did also, but it remained unspoken.

  She smiled gently. "You look tired."

  "It's been a hard night," he said.

  "Did you manage to find this Jane Gordon person the Soames woman told you about when we were in the car?"

  "I'm afraid I was too late," he said, "but I found what I needed to know in the end."

  He lit a cigarette and gave her a brief outline of the events of the past few hours. When he had finished, she sat there without saying a word, staring sombrely into space.

  "What do you think?" he said.

  "I think you should go to the police," she said. "I think things have gone far enough."

  "But Davos is the one person left on earth who knows the truth," he said. "Do you think it's likely he'll make a confession at this stage?"

  She frowned, her fingers twisting together nervously. "But what about the others who've been mixed up in this affair? Das and Professor Soames, for examples. The police should be able to get something out of them."

  He shook his head. "Not a chance. Even Soames didn't know who Jane Gordon was working for. My one hope is to get to Davos, to force him to confess before the police lay me by the heels."

  "And what if he refuses?" she demanded. "What will you do then? Kill him?"

  "And why not?" he said bitterly. "If ever a man deserved to die, he does."

  He got to his feet and paced restlessly across the floor. After a moment he turned back to the table. She sat with her head bowed and he pulled her to her feet and held her close in his arms. "I lost control there for a moment. I'm sorry. I'm tired. I suppose we both are. Better go to bed."

  "The man who handled your case before," she said. "This Inspector Mallory. Couldn't he do something?"

  "He certainly did a hell of a lot for me last time," Brady said. He led her through the living-room and back into her bedroom. "Now forget about it. We'll talk it over in the morning."

  "What about you?" she said.

  He shrugged. "I'll manage on the divan in the living-room."

  She got into bed, but her face was still strained and anxious. "You will go to the police, won't you, Matt?"

  "Sure I will." He leaned down and kissed her.

  The last thing he remembered was her smile, warm and wonderful as he switched out the light and gently closed the door.

  (11)

  HE went into the kitchen, had another coffee and waited for her to go to sleep. It didn't take long. He stood outside her door and listened and then he pulled on his jacket and went back into the kitchen.

  He managed to find a memo pad and pencil and sat down at the table to write her a note. After two attempts, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into a corner. There was really nothing left to say.

  It was almost two a.m. when he closed the door of the apartment and went quietly downstairs.

  He unlocked the car, took the road map from the glove compartment and left the keys in its place. There was a good chance he would never get out of London and when they caught him, he didn't want to be in Anne's car. He'd involved her too much already.

  The fog had reduced visibility to thirty or forty yards and he walked briskly along the pavement, his senses alert for danger.

  He had his first break half an hour later in a side street near the Albert Hall. A small and battered van was parked in a cul-de-sac. The lock on the door was already broken, but the owner had taken the key with him. Brady climbed in and reached behind the dashboard. He tore the ignition wires free and joined them together. A few minutes later he was driving cautiously away.

  He stopped a little while later in a quiet side street and consulted the map. Essex was a county he knew reasonably well. Only three years previously he had been engineer in charge of a bridge project near Chelmsford.

  Harth was near the tip of a spur of the coastline that jutted out where the River Blackwater emptied into the North Sea. It seemed to be a sparsely inhabited area with few roads. As the young maid had told him, Shayling Island was about two miles off-shore.

  He stuffed the map into his pocket and drove away. According to the fuel gauge, there were only a couple of gallons in the tank, but for the moment, he concentrated on his driving. Minor problems could wait till later.

  There was a surprising amount of traffic still on the roads. Probably people who had been delayed by the fog, he decided. Once out of the centre of London, he kept to the back streets, working in the direction of Romford, finally coming out on to the Chelmsford road.

  Once pas
t Romford he relaxed, lit a cigarette and concentrated on his driving. The fog was not as bad as it had been in London, but bad enough and it was a full hour before he turned off the main road and lost himself in a maze of back-country lanes.

  He stopped frequently to consult the map and passed through several villages until finally, he took a wrong turning. As the first cold light of dawn crept through the fog, he drove through Southminster.

  He followed the road to Tillingham for another half-mile and then the engine seemed suddenly to lose power, coughed once asthmatically, and died.

  The fuel gauge still indicated two gallons which didn't prove a thing and he got out and had a look at the tank. There was still a little in there and he lifted the hood and examined the engine.

  As he did so, a police constable rode out of the fog on a bicycle, cape swinging from his shoulders. He braked to a halt and propped the bike against the hedge before coming forward.

  "Having a spot of bother?" he said cheerfully.

  Brady kept his head down. "Nothing I can't handle, thank you."

  What was it Joe Evans had called it? Lag's Luck. The unexpected that always happens to the man on the run?

  "You're not from these parts, are you?" the constable said.

  "No, just passing through," Brady told him.

  There was a heavy pause before the man said, "I wonder if I might have a look at your driving licence, sir?"

  "I'm afraid I haven't got it with me right now," Brady said.

  The engine suddenly coughed into life again and he quickly pulled down the hood. "I guess that fixes it."

  As he moved towards the van door, the constable caught hold of his arm and jerked him round. "Now, just a minute, sir. I'm afraid I'll ..." The words died away as a look of complete astonishment passed across his face. "You're Brady," he said stupidly. "Matthew Brady."

  The engine stopped again and somehow there was something utterly final about it. There was a moment of complete stillness and then, as the fingers started to tighten on his arm, Brady struck out wildly at the big, genial face and ran into the fog.

  Once out of sight, he forced his way through the hedge and ran across a ploughed field. He came to a fence, clambered over, and kept on going. After he had covered half a mile, he stopped and slumped down to the ground under a tree in a small copse.

  There was no sound of pursuit, he hadn't really expected any. By now the constable would be at the nearest telephone, nursing his smashed mouth and passing on his news to his superiors. Within an hour, two at the most, every able-bodied man in the district would be looking for him and he was trapped. Trapped with his back to the sea. His one chance was to reach Harth, steal a boat and reach Shayling Island.

  He started to walk, but the fog was so thick that he lost his sense of direction completely after the first hour. He didn't feel tired, but there was a slight ache in his legs and his stomach felt empty.

  He finally decided to have a rest and sat down under a tree and smoked his last cigarette. A small wind lifted through the trees, bringing with it a good salt smell of the sea. A sudden thrill ran through him and he scrambled to his feet. If he kept on walking straight into the wind, he would come to the shore. After that, he only had to follow the coastline to reach Harth.

  He started forward and there was a sudden cry from somewhere on his left. He turned, crouching, as three men emerged from the fog and paused on the edge of the trees.

  "Stand where you are!" one of them called.

  As Brady turned to run, a shotgun roared and lead pellets sang through the trees above his head. Behind him a dog barked excitedly, but he kept on going, scrambled over a fence and found himself ankle-deep in marsh water.

  As he progressed, it grew deeper until he was floundering knee-deep, the brown water churning about his knees. He kept on moving over to his left, pausing occasionally to listen to the cries of his pursuers, but finally they faded and he was alone.

  He could hear the waves breaking on the shore long before he saw them and then he came up out of the marsh, over a small sand dune and down on to the shore.

  He started to trot along the wet sand as rain began to fall, lightly at first, and then with increasing force. Soon the fog started to lift.

  He was beginning to feel tired and once he fell. When he got up, his legs were trembling slightly but he forced himself to break into a stumbling trot again.

  His mouth was dry and there was a slight ache somewhere behind his right eye, but he kept on going because he had no choice. The hounds were in full cry now. It was with a sense of shock that he found himself knee-deep in water. At this point the sand ended and the sea swept in close against jagged rocks.

  On the other side of them stood a boathouse stoutly constructed of weathered grey stone with a slipway running clear into green water.

  A headland jutted out on the other side of the tiny cove and beyond it, chimney smoke lifted into the grey morning. When he turned and looked out to sea, there was Shayling Island, half-veiled in a curtain of rain.

  He slid down the rocks knee-deep into water and plunged towards the slipway. The wooden door of the boathouse wasn't padlocked, but he hadn't expected it to be. Fishing communities were the same the world over. Boats were never kept under lock and key. Emergencies were too frequent.

  He opened the doors wide and moved inside. There was a heavy fishing cobble which needed at least three men to handle it satisfactorily, but at one side, he found a small sailing dinghy.

  The wind was freshening, lifting the waves into white-caps as he ran the dinghy down into the water and stepped the mast. The sail billowed out as soon as he unfurled it and the dinghy heeled slightly and water poured over the gunn'l. He adjusted his weight to compensate and a moment later, moved out of the cove into the North Sea.

  He had last sailed a dinghy off Cape Cod during long summer holidays as a boy, but never in weather like this. The light craft wasn't built for it and bucked wildly over the waves, shipping water constantly.

  Within a short time he was soaked to the skin and bitterly cold. He hung on desperately to the tiller as the wind freshened and the waves began to chop menacingly.

  Through the curtain of rain, the island loomed larger. Great cliffs lifted out of the sea and at their feet, the waves rolled in to dash upon jagged, dangerous-looking rocks.

  There was no sign of a landing place. He tried to trim the sail to follow the shoreline, but the wind was too strong for him and suddenly, the cliffs were no more than a hundred yards away.

  He dropped the sail hurriedly and reached for the oars, but it was too late. He was caught in a giant hand and carried helplessly in.

  Strange, swirling currents twisted him in a circle and there was a hollow, slapping sound against the keel of the boat. At one side, the water broke suddenly, white spray foaming high in the air, while all around him, white patches appeared and rocks showed through as the tide went out.

  The dinghy slewed broadside on into the surf, lifted high and smashed down against a great green slab of rock. Brady disappeared over the stern into a cauldron of boiling water.

  He tried to stand up. All around him, boulders were appearing and disappearing as the waves foamed over them and then he was lifted with irresistible force and carried over the reef towards the base of the cliffs.

  The water receded with a great sucking sound and he hooked his fingers into the gravel and forced himself to his knees.

  He lurched forward, scrambling desperately over the rocks. A moment later, the water boiled waist-high again, tugging at his limbs with great curling fingers that tried to take him out to sea. He grabbed at a crevasse in a boulder and hung on.

  As the water receded, he forced himself forward over the final line of jagged rocks. A moment later, he was safe on the narrow strip of beach at the base of the cliffs.

  He sat down, holding his head in his hands, and the world spun away into the roaring of the sea and the taste of it was in his throat and he retched, bringing up a great qua
ntity of salt water.

  After a while he got to his feet and turned to examine the cliffs behind him. They were no more than seventy or eighty feet high and sloped gently backwards, cracked and fissured with great gullies.

  It was an easy enough climb, but he was tired--very tired. The sea still roared in his ears and there was an element of unreality to everything as if none of this were really happening to him.

  What am I doing here? he asked himself. There was no answer. No answer at all and he hauled himself over the edge of the cliff and sprawled face down in the wet grass.

  (12)

  AFTER a while he opened his eyes and saw the boots a few inches from his face. They were hand-made and very expensive. He started to get up and there was a low, warning growl like thunder rumbling faintly in the distance.

  He rolled on to his back and looked up. Miklos Davos stood over him. He wore a thigh-length hunting jacket with a fur collar and a green Tyrolean hat slanted across the wedge-shaped devil's face. He carried a double-barrelled shotgun under one arm.

  The source of the growl was a magnificent black-and-tan Dobermann and it moved forward threateningly, eyes glowing like hot coals.

  "Down, Kurt! Down!" Davos said. "I don't think we need to worry about Mr. Brady. He doesn't look too healthy."

  He squatted, the shotgun comfortably across his knees, and produced a large leather hip flask. "I've been watching your progress for the past half-hour. You've had a rough crossing. A little brandy will settle your stomach."

  Brady didn't bother to argue. He took the flask and swallowed, coughing as the raw liquor burned its way down into his gullet.

  A warm, pleasant glow spread inside him. He swallowed deeply again and began to feel a little better.

  Davos had busied himself lighting a Turkish cigarette and now he smiled. "I trust you feel less like a corpse, my friend."

  "You lousy bastard!" Brady croaked.

  A slight sardonic smile touched the dark, saturnine face. "So, there is still a spark of life? That promises very well. Would you care for a cigarette?"