“Well now, let’s be seeing you then!”
A light shone into Benedikt’s face, blinding him again. But it came from a different direction—the light came from one side of the pit, the voice from the other.
“Easy now!” The voice tightened as Benedikt raised on£ hand to shade his eyes. “Let’s be seeing the other hand then, if you please!
Because there’s a gun on you— slowly now—and I wouldn’t like for it to go off.”
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Benedikt raised his other hand automatically.
Kelly—
The Irish voice was overlaid with years of English-speaking, but it was unmistakable.
Gunner Kelly—
“Please?” He packed the whole of Thomas Wiesehöfer into the appeal. “What is happening? I do not understand—?”
“Of course you don’t.” Kelly agreed with him. “Mr Wiesehöfer, is it? Or Herr Wiesehöfer—so it is!”
He hadn’t bargained on Gunner Kelly. With Audley he would have known where he was, but the old Irishman was an unknown factor.
“Yes.” No—not quite an unknown factor, more an unexpected one at this stage of the confrontation; and he must not let mere surprise stampede him into error. The essential script still applied, subject only to appropriate amendment where necessary. “Who are you?”
He sharpened his voice.
Gunner Kelly— Michael Kelly, manservant to the late General Herbert George Maxwell—
“Who am I?” The question seemed to surprise the Irishman.
Who was he? Colonel Butler’s Special Branch officer had answered that all too sketchily, with the sort of facts a routine police inquiry might have unearthed about any honest citizen who had never tangled with authority until pure bad luck had placed him near the scene of a crime.
Michael Kelly, born in Dublin 62 years ago, when Dublin had still dummy1
been part of the still-mighty British Empire—
“Who am I, you’re asking?” The note of surprise was edged with banter, as though it ought to be obvious to Thomas Wiesehöfer that such a question had no priority, coming from the bottom of a man-trap.
Michael Kelly, formerly of Kelly’s Taxis in Yorkshire— but . . .
Kelly’s Taxis was one broken-down Austin Cambridge until it ran off the road . . . but, much more to the point— formerly Royal Artillery, long-service enlistment—
“Yes,” snapped Thomas Wiesehöfer stoutly, ignoring the reaction to his own question. “Are you the Police?”
Silence.
“Are you the Police?” Thomas Wiesehöfer, encased in the inadequate armour of injured and angry innocence, might take enough courage from that silence to repeat the question even more stoutly.
“Am I the Pol-iss?” Incredulity. “The Pol-iss?” Derision. “Now, for why should I be the Poliss, in God’s name?” Derisive incredulity.
What should Thomas Wiesehöfer do now—also in God’s name?
Most likely he would not know what to do! And all Benedikt himself could think of was to consult his memory of Colonel Butler’s image of Gunner Kelly, based as it was more on the Colonel’s old soldier’s memory of old soldiers than on any precise and worthwhile intelligence about that man.
“A long-service regular— twenty-one years. . . and the son of a dummy1
soldier too . . . And mustered out in the same rank he started with.” (A curious softening of the expression there, at odds with the harsh bark: Colonel Butler recalling other faces from happier times?) “But don’t make the mistake of thinking him stupid, if you come up against him, Captain Schneider. You must have come up against the same type in the Wehrmacht— the old sweats who knew more about the service than you did, and knew what they wanted—
the ones you tried to promote, who knew exactly how to lose their stripes short of a court-martial. . . If you could ever beat one of them at his own game you’d get the finest non-commissioned material of all— better than the ones who hungered for promotion, even . . . the villains, if you like— but it was St Paul who spread the Gospel to the Gentiles, remember— the biggest villain of all— not St Peter . . . So don’t you underestimate him, Captain . . . And an Irishman too— because with them it’s the heart they give, not the head, when they make the break: you can’t reason with them, and they’re ready for the best and the worst then— they’ll charge machine-guns head-on to save you, or they’ll shoot you in the back
— and you ‘II never know which until it happens, because they’re what God made them, which is smarter than a cartload of monkeys, and not what you’d like them to be—”
More silence. And then the movement of the man above, dislodging more of the surface above into the pit.
“The Poliss—” Gunner Kelly’s voice lifted out of the hole as he delivered the words to those beside him “—would you believe that, now!”
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Benedikt began to believe Colonel Butler’s theories absolutely.
“You are not the Police?” But then a nasty thought dissolved his satisfaction: for where was David Audley? He should have been here by now, after the roar of that maroon. But he wasn’t—and this was therefore an unforeseen circumstance, in which Gunner Kelly might decide, heart over head, to “knock ‘im on the ’ead an‘ fill in the bloody ’ole”, with no more questions asked—that might be the easiest heart-way with an intractable problem.
“Why should I be the Poliss, then?” The question came down to him challengingly, but reassuringly.
Benedikt thought quickly. “You threaten me with guns— with firearms.” Only outraged innocence presented itself as a proper reaction. “By what right? You have no right to threaten me so!”
“No right?” Kelly paused. “Rights, is it then? Well then, Mister—
Mein Herr—you tell me by what right ye are on private property at this hour of the night, when every Christian man should be in his bed, with his loving wife beside him? Can you be telling me that, and I will be telling you about my rights in the matter then!”
Anger for anger, he was being given. And how should poor Thomas Wiesehöfer react to that? He would be frightened, decided Benedikt instantly—he would be scared halfway to death, and not less so for being innocent.
“But. . . but I do not know—I am lost in the darkness upon the hillside, and I saw a light—I do not know where I am!” he protested desperately. “What is this place?”
Again no answer came back directly down to him. And that might dummy1
mean the beginning of doubt up above . . . but, for sure, Thomas Wiesehöfer in his confusion would not be computing any such blessing: rather, far more likely, fear would be sharpening his wits
—
“Please—is this Duntisbury Royal?”
Again there was no immediate answer, though this time he caught the soft murmur of whispering.