Read Online Fear is the Key by Alistair MacLean - Free Book Online
Authors: Alistair MacLean
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ofher dirndl. She had tears of mortification in hereyes and defeat in her face, but for all that it wasa face worth looking at. Despite our long hours inthe car together it was the first time I had reallylooked at it.
She had wonderful hair, thick and gleaming andparted in the middle and of the same wheat colourand worn in the same braids as that often seen ingirls from the East Baltic states or what used to bethe Baltic states. But she would never win a MissAmerica contest, she had too much character inher face for that, she wouldnât even have beenin the running for Miss Marble Springs. The facewas slightly Slavonic, the cheekbones too high andwide, the mouth too full, the still grey eyes settoo far apart and the nose definitely retroussé. Amobile and intelligent face, a face, I guessed, thatcould move easily into sympathy and kindness andhumour and laughter, when the weariness wasgone and the fear taken away. In the days beforeI had given up the dream of my own slippers andmy own fireside, this was the face that would havefitted the dream. She was the sort of person whowould wear well, the sort of person who would stillbe part of you long after the synthetic chromiumpolished blondes from the production lines of theglamour factory had you climbing up the walls.
I was just standing there, feeling a little sorry forher and feeling a little sorry for myself, when I felta cold draught on the back of my neck. It camefrom the direction of the bathroom door and tenseconds ago that bathroom door had been closedand locked. But it wasnât now.
THREE
It didnât require the sudden widening of the girlâseyes to tell me that I wasnât imagining that colddraught on the back of my neck. A cloud of steamfrom the overheated bathroom drifted past myright ear, a little bit too much to have escapedthrough the keyhole of a locked door. About athousand times too much. I turned slowly, keepingmy hands well away from my sides. Maybe I wouldtry something clever later. But not now.
The first thing I noticed was the gun in hishands, and it wasnât the sort of gun a beginnercarries around with him. A big dull black GermanMauser 7.63. One of those economical guns; thebullet goes clear through three people at once.
The second thing I noticed was that the bathroomdoorway seemed to have shrunk since Iâdseen it last. His shoulders didnât quite touch bothsides of the doorway, but that was only becauseit was a wide doorway. His hat certainly touchedthe lintel.
The third thing I noticed was the kind of hat hewore and the colour of the jacket. A panama hat, agreen jacket. It was our friend and neighbour fromthe Ford that had been parked beside us earlier thatafternoon.
He reached behind him with his left hand andsoftly closed the bathroom door.
âYou shouldnât leave windows open. Let mehave your gun.â His voice was quiet and deep,but there was nothing stagy or menacing about it,you could see it was the way he normally spoke.
âGun?â I tried to look baffled.
âLook, Talbot,â he said pleasantly. âI suspect weâreboth what you might call professionals. I suggestwe cut the unnecessary dialogue. Gun. The thingyouâre carrying in your right coat pocket there.With the finger and thumb of the left hand. So.Now drop it on the carpet. Thank you.â
I kicked the gun across to him without beingtold. I didnât want him to think I wasnât a professionaltoo.
âNow sit down,â he said. He smiled at me, and Icould see now that his face wasnât chubby, unlessyou could call a lump of rock chubby. It wasjust broad and looked as if you could bounce atwo by four off it without achieving very much.The narrow black moustache and the thin, almostGrecian nose looked out of place, as incongruous,almost, as the laughter lines round the eyes and oneither side of the mouth. I didnât place much storeon the laughter lines, maybe he only practisedsmiling when he was
She had wonderful hair, thick and gleaming andparted in the middle and of the same wheat colourand worn in the same braids as that often seen ingirls from the East Baltic states or what used to bethe Baltic states. But she would never win a MissAmerica contest, she had too much character inher face for that, she wouldnât even have beenin the running for Miss Marble Springs. The facewas slightly Slavonic, the cheekbones too high andwide, the mouth too full, the still grey eyes settoo far apart and the nose definitely retroussé. Amobile and intelligent face, a face, I guessed, thatcould move easily into sympathy and kindness andhumour and laughter, when the weariness wasgone and the fear taken away. In the days beforeI had given up the dream of my own slippers andmy own fireside, this was the face that would havefitted the dream. She was the sort of person whowould wear well, the sort of person who would stillbe part of you long after the synthetic chromiumpolished blondes from the production lines of theglamour factory had you climbing up the walls.
I was just standing there, feeling a little sorry forher and feeling a little sorry for myself, when I felta cold draught on the back of my neck. It camefrom the direction of the bathroom door and tenseconds ago that bathroom door had been closedand locked. But it wasnât now.
THREE
It didnât require the sudden widening of the girlâseyes to tell me that I wasnât imagining that colddraught on the back of my neck. A cloud of steamfrom the overheated bathroom drifted past myright ear, a little bit too much to have escapedthrough the keyhole of a locked door. About athousand times too much. I turned slowly, keepingmy hands well away from my sides. Maybe I wouldtry something clever later. But not now.
The first thing I noticed was the gun in hishands, and it wasnât the sort of gun a beginnercarries around with him. A big dull black GermanMauser 7.63. One of those economical guns; thebullet goes clear through three people at once.
The second thing I noticed was that the bathroomdoorway seemed to have shrunk since Iâdseen it last. His shoulders didnât quite touch bothsides of the doorway, but that was only becauseit was a wide doorway. His hat certainly touchedthe lintel.
The third thing I noticed was the kind of hat hewore and the colour of the jacket. A panama hat, agreen jacket. It was our friend and neighbour fromthe Ford that had been parked beside us earlier thatafternoon.
He reached behind him with his left hand andsoftly closed the bathroom door.
âYou shouldnât leave windows open. Let mehave your gun.â His voice was quiet and deep,but there was nothing stagy or menacing about it,you could see it was the way he normally spoke.
âGun?â I tried to look baffled.
âLook, Talbot,â he said pleasantly. âI suspect weâreboth what you might call professionals. I suggestwe cut the unnecessary dialogue. Gun. The thingyouâre carrying in your right coat pocket there.With the finger and thumb of the left hand. So.Now drop it on the carpet. Thank you.â
I kicked the gun across to him without beingtold. I didnât want him to think I wasnât a professionaltoo.
âNow sit down,â he said. He smiled at me, and Icould see now that his face wasnât chubby, unlessyou could call a lump of rock chubby. It wasjust broad and looked as if you could bounce atwo by four off it without achieving very much.The narrow black moustache and the thin, almostGrecian nose looked out of place, as incongruous,almost, as the laughter lines round the eyes and oneither side of the mouth. I didnât place much storeon the laughter lines, maybe he only practisedsmiling when he was
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