Part Four
Sally gazed wildly around the room, swallowed hard and tried to force down the feeling of panic that was rising within her.
“But why? What do they want with us now?” And her voice trembled a little, in spite of her efforts to control it.
“Perhaps they were looking for somewhere to leave the complimentary bottle of champagne that is customary for honeymooners,” James observed dryly. He walked to the waste paper basket, one of the few things that had not been disturbed, and rummaged amongst the papers it held.
“I think they were looking for this.” Again he held the ugly, black metaled revolver in his hands. Sally shivered.
“I thought you were going to get rid of that thing,” she accused. “And it doesn't make sense. Why should they go to the trouble of planting it in the office if they now need it so badly themselves?”
“Ah. Now, that would only make sense if this little thing was part of a larger consignment,” James mused thoughtfully, “and our friends have decided that they were a little rash in leaving it lying around and now they are being careful. But we shall take even more care of it. And ourselves.”
“Right.” He pushed the gun into his pocket and looked briskly about him. “You pack the bases whilst I create a little order in here. And quickly, quickly. The honeymoon is definitely over, Mrs Weston.”
“How did they find as?” Sally whispered.
“Pack.” He commanded.
“Postmortems can wait until we've time to deal with them.”
They left the suitcases in their room and went down to the bar. James brought a large brandy over to her.
“Good for shock, brandy,” he grinned at her.
“Oh? And I suppose you are not the least affected by anything short of a national disaster?” Sally flared at his condescending attitude. “The bulldog breed. Nerves of steel, and all that, what?”
“Of course. That's why I have an even larger brandy than you.” James sat down and raised his glass mockingly.
“Here’s to your good health. I can see that there is nothing wrong with your temper.” “Nothing wrong with my brain, either. At least I have the good sense to feel frightened when I'm threatened.”
“Hey!” James looked at her sternly. “Bickering isn't going to solve any of our problems.”
“I'm sorry,” Sally said, regretting her outburst immediately. “But it all seems so hopeless. They can find us wherever we go. They are just toying with us. And we don't even know who they are.”
“They've found us once, that's all. Why, we haven't even started to hide yet,” James said confidently. He glanced at his watch.
“Freddie should arrive at any moment, we will have transport and money. Then we'll see who is toying with whom.”
“Yes,” Sally sighed, unconvinced.
“And when you have finished feeling sorry for yourself, you might remember that we still have a client who needs our help. Which reminds me, I'd better ‘phone our Mr. Weston now.” And he strode off to the telephone kiosk, leaving Sally staring glumly into her brandy glass and wondering how they could possibly help anyone else when they didn't seem capable of helping themselves.
James returned shortly and sat staring absently as he sipped his brandy. “What is wrong now?” Sally asked, resigned to the worst.
“The strangest thing,” James said slowly, thoughtfully. “I 'phoned Donald Weston and he informed me that Carol's father has a place in the country. Scotland, to be exact. So, with my usual fiendish cunning, I assumed my broadest Scottish accent and 'phoned to speak to Mr. Hawes or his daughter.”
“And?” Sally asked impatiently, as he took a slow sip from his glass. “A rather peevish voiced gentleman soon sent me packing.”
“That's not so strange,” Sally said waspishly. “You should be used to that be now.” “I haven't come to the strange part yet.”
“You are the strange part.”
“You see,” James ignored her remarks, “I recognized that voice. But he wasn't working for Bernard Haves then.”
“It's not so strange to recognize an old crony. Which psychiatric hospital were you in together?” she asked politely.
“Oh, we've never met. No, the last time I spoke to him he was, supposedly, Major Smith's secretary and his name was Blackwell.”
“What?” Sally gasped.
“Ah ha! I thought that would make you sit up and take notice!” James smiled, pleased with his effect. “That'll teach you to mock me the next time I have strange news.”
“Oh, do stop mumbling on and on: Are you sure it was the same voice?” “Positive. Absolutely so.”
“Then we can go to the police: Can't we?” Sally asked hopefully. James shook his head. “'Fraid not, old thing,” he said sympathetically. “I am not an old thing: And why not?”
“Because you're a young thing?” James ventured.
“I meant, why can't we go to the police?” Sally spoke slowly her tone measured, her patience thin.
“Proof. The police are rather fond of the stuff, I gather. And who can blame them?” “Could you try to be serious for just a few moments? Please?” Sally asked in a voice brittle with warning.
“Never been more serious in my life,” James answered casually, his eyes betraying his words. “But what you don't seem to realize, young thing, is that we have been given our first break. The fox has broken cover, the chase is now on. And we can be the hunters for a change."
Sally stared at his excited face in disbelief.
“You are quite mad. I realize that now,” she said calmly. “You sit there overjoyed at the prospect of chasing some person all over the length and breadth of Scotland and conveniently disregard the fact that untold thousands of policemen are chasing after you. Quite mad. I'm afraid.”
“And you have pessimism down to a fine art,” he retorted. “Why, you are the kind of person who would pack an umbrella and raincoat for a trip across the Sahara desert.”
They sat glaring at each other, but before either could think of something further to say, they were interrupted.
“Hello Darlings.”
Sally turned and stared in amazement. The man