Modesty Blaise Read online

  McWhirter’s hand was on a studded oak door. He opened it quietly on to a large, carpeted room, and tiptoed in, beckoning Borg to follow with Grant. As soon as they had entered he closed the door.

  The room was dark except for the flicker of a projector throwing a colored film on a screen which hung on the wall to the right. As Grant’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he saw a big desk across the far corner, a wall lined with books, and a number of religious pictures and statuettes. Cigarette smoke drifted in the air, and on a polished wooden table with gadrooned legs stood a dozen bottles of various drinks.

  From the size and the lack of austerity in the furnishing, Grant decided that this must be the abbot’s sanctum. And perhaps, he thought bleakly, the abbot was lying stitched in that blanket below.

  There were four men in the room. One sat in an armchair of carved oak. The other three were ranged behind him on plain chairs, and from their attitudes they were bored. But not the man in the armchair. He sat with chin resting on folded hands, leaning back, absorbed in the picture. And every few seconds he would give a sudden, tittering giggle.

  Grant looked at the screen. The film was a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Tom, the cat, was crouched by the open door of a room, his face set in a diabolical leer, a baseball bat poised as he waited for Jerry. But the mouse was emerging from a small cupboard behind Tom, on the far side of the room, pushing a roller skate with a flaring blow lamp tied to it.

  The man in the armchair gave a snigger of anticipation. On the screen, Jerry set the skate rolling. It whizzed across the floor, and Tom shot to the ceiling with a shriek as his buttocks turned cherry-red. He landed, legs moving in a blur, and shot like a rocket through the window. Seconds later the picture dwindled in a decreasing circle and the credits began to roll.

  A man stopped the projector and switched on the lights. As Grant had noted earlier, the monastery had a small power plant of its own. Now he was trying to make a guess at the number of men in occupation here, excluding those who had brought him from the ship and who had presumably gone aboard again. There were six in the room with him, the swarthy man who had guarded him, and in his perambulations through the monastery he had seen armed men in the chapel and at strategic points in the corridors. Thirty at least, he decided. It was another fact to add to his useless store of information.

  The man in the armchair got up, the last remnants of a grin fading from the thin lips. When he looked at Grant the face held nothing at all. Its emptiness was almost a positive thing. The flesh was putty-colored and looked spongy. Black hair, rather long, was brushed straight back over the pointed ears. The eyes were hooded, and set unnaturally wide, but it was their color that held Grant’s gaze. The irises were like small discs of bleached khaki, almost white, so that at first impression they seemed to be completely absent, leaving only the black pupils centered in the white expanse of eyeball.

  “I want to go over the latest figures, McWhirter,” Gabriel said, and the voice was as colorless as the eyes. “Who’s this?”

  “Feller called Grant.” McWhirter’s manners was as blithe as ever, but Grant noticed that he wasted no words. “Ye’ll recall that before we left Antibes, the group we retained to cover security in the South o’ France sprang a leak.”

  “Pacco’s group. Yes. A British agent began to snoop. He was dealt with.”

  “Aye. Borg played him a fugue wi’ the piano wire.” McWhirter’s head jerked in acknowledgment toward the big man handcuffed to Grant. “But they followed up. Sent another feller over. This one.”

  “Who picked him up?”

  “Kalonides. Aye, he’d got that far. Kalonides brought him in tonight on the scheduled run. He thought maybe ye’d want to open the laddie up, Gabriel.” McWhirter looked hopeful.

  Gabriel moved to the big desk, where several files and a clipboard of papers were neatly arranged.

  “No,” he said briefly. “See to him.”

  McWhirter smiled at Grant with rueful congratulation, then looked at Gabriel again. “It would be a little something for Mrs. Fothergill, perhaps?” he suggested diffidently.

  “Where is she now?” Gabriel was absorbed in the file he had picked up, and was giving only half his attention to McWhirter.

  “On the terrace below.” McWhirter nodded toward the tall, curtained windows. There was a stir of interest among the other men.

  “All right.” Gabriel put down the folder. A man in slacks and a heavy sweater moved to draw back the curtains.

  “Come along, laddie, I’ll introduce ye.” McWhirter turned to the door with his spring-heeled walk. Borg jerked at the handcuffs and Grant moved with him.

  In the corridor they passed a monk carrying a tray of food, a guard pacing behind him.

  “Strange thing, a life o’ meditation,” said McWhirter, hands in pockets, head thrust forward as he walked energetically ahead. “I’ve never felt the call to it mysel’, but I’d think an order vowed to silence would have certain disadvantages. I’m a student o’ the dying art o’ conversation, d’ye see, and when ye consider …”

  Grant closed his mind to the voice, blurring it into the background. His nerves were tense now, and he was very frightened, but his mind remained coldly clear.

  Mrs. Fothergill? The name meant nothing to him. She was presumably to be concerned in killing him, but he rejected pointless speculation about details.

  Grant focused his mind on the idea that, with luck, he might take somebody with him. Borg, perhaps, but McWhirter for preference. It was a matter of choosing the best moment. Grant knew how to kill a man quickly, but he had only one hand free; the other was shackled to Borg’s wrist, and Borg was a heavy, powerful man. Still, if he went for the eyes first, stiff-fingered, then swung a knee to the groin, he might just have time to…

  They stopped by an open door, crossed the room beyond it, and halted by tall windows which opened on to a flagged terrace, broad and semicircular with a low stone parapet. It seemed to Grant, as McWhirter opened the windows, that beyond the parapet the ground dropped away at a steep slope. He could hear the murmur of the sea below.

  Borg took out a key and unlocked the cuff on Grant’s wrist. It came as a surprise, and before Grant could take advantage of it the thrust of a powerful arm sent him staggering out across the terrace. The heavy windows closed.

  Grant regained his balance and stared about him, nerves crawling. The half-moon of the terrace swelled from the center of a cloister running almost the full length of this side of the monastery.

  There came a sound of voices, and Grant looked up. Thirty feet above was a long balcony which he realized must extend from the sanctum where he had seen Gabriel. There were figures on the balcony, four or five men, shadowy in the light of the room behind them. The one standing a little apart was Gabriel. They were all looking down, waiting.

  Grant backed warily to the center of the terrace. Something like hope sparked within him. If he could get down the rocky slope to the sea, and hide somewhere on the island … finding him would take time, a full day maybe. And in a full day anything could happen!

  A red glow flickered across the edge of his vision and he turned sharply. Vaguely, from above, he heard the sound of a familiar, chuckling voice. McWhirter had joined the men on the balcony.

  Grant’s eyes were on the red glow. It hovered in the air against a curious patch of darkness. The patch of darkness moved, and resolved itself into a figure seated on the low coping of the terrace at its widest point, about twenty-five feet away.

  A man smoking a cigar. Walking slowly toward him now, no, by God, a woman!

  She wore a gray shirt with long sleeves and dark, rumpled trousers held by a leather belt. Her feet, in grubby plimsoles, were curiously small. She might have been forty. The face was heavy-jowled and devoid of make-up except for a gash of carelessly applied lipstick. Inexpertly dyed blond hair rose in short fuzzy crop from her head. Her neck seemed to slope out almost directly from below the jaws to the broad shoulders. Her breasts were large but
tightly confined; there was little movement beneath the shirt.

  Mrs. Fothergill, thought Grant, and felt his stomach twist with a stab of nameless fear.

  She took the butt of the cigar from her lips and flicked it over the parapet in a thin trail of sparks. Her mouth widened in the shape of a grin but the lips remained tight over the teeth, so that the grin showed only as a dark, curving ellipse. She flicked both hands in a slight beckoning motion.

  “All right, sonnyboy.” The voice was husky with a trace of adenoidal twang. “Let’s get on with it.” On the last words her body seemed to flicker forward, and a muscular hand smashed in a contemptuous backstroke across Grant’s face.

  The shock of it was more stunning than the blow itself. He reeled back, twisted to regain his balance, and dropped into a crouch, staring incredulously. By instinct he had fallen into the ready position of the judoka, and Mrs. Fothergill surveyed him with approval.

  “That’s better,” she grunted, and began to edge in, thistledown light on the small feet.

  Grant’s brain checked factors at racing speed. A woman. A hermaphrodite more likely. Very tough, very experienced, very fast. But half a woman, anyway. He should have enough edge to put her out of action. Then over the parapet and a quick scramble down.

  She swung a lazy blow with clenched fist toward his head. He moved his forearm to block it, saw the feint too late, and only half-rode the savagely swung foot to his kidneys.

  Grant heard himself give an animal grunt as he twisted away, staggering. She was coming in again. Desperately now he whirled and flung himself forward in a surprise recovery, watching for the lash of a foot as he lunged at her throat with the bunched tips of his fingers.

  She caught his wrist with a loud slap, gripping it hard, and for a long moment they stood unmoving. In that time all hope drained from Grant. He knew, with sick disgust, that she was stronger and faster than he was.

  Closing his mind to the knowledge, he tensed to drive in with the knee, and knew that she had sensed the move in the same instant that he had planned it. Her other hand clamped on his arm. He was jerked forward like a rag doll, and a hard shoulder slammed brutally against his heart.

  He went down, sprawling, and heard her chuckle as she stepped back. Somewhere through the mists of dizziness and despair he heard a murmur of voices from the watchers above.

  Doggedly Grant got to his feet, heart thumping, breath hissing as he gulped air. Again he moved in, and this time she swayed aside and chopped with the edge of her hand to his bicep. It was like being hit with a blunt ax.

  He staggered past her, turning. His right arm hung limp, and he wondered dully if the bone was broken.

  Now there was new excitement in her face, and the small dark eyes were glittering wih pleasure. Grant stood swaying, waiting for her, hoping that overconfidence might give him one last chance of a counter, a kick to the stomach. There was little else he was capable of now.

  She came in, curving her body past the kick like a matador, and took his good arm as he clawed for her face. She locked it under her armpit and jerked suddenly. Grant screamed as the bone snapped. His face was close to hers, and nausea swept him at the almost orgastic stare of pleasure in her eyes.

  Mrs. Fothergill let him go and swung a casually brutal backhand across his face. A foot caught behind his ankle, and he fell back on the flags. Blackness eddied about him as his head jarred against the hard stone. Desperately he tried to move, but the muscles would no longer respond.

  Mrs. Fothergill drew in a long, contented breath, and exhaled it. She glanced up at the balcony, then straddled Grant’s supine form. Hitching up the knees of her trousers, she knelt astride him. Carefully she adjusted her hands round his throat, thumbs on the larynx, and began to squeeze.

  Gabriel watched Grant die, then turned back into the sanctum. The others followed.

  “Have ye ever wondered,” McWhirter said musingly “about Mister Fothergill?” One man laughed. Another spoke questioningly in Spanish, and a third began a pidgin-English translation of McWhirter’s remark. Gabriel cut him short.

  “Get the mess on the terrace cleaned up,” he said, jerking his head toward the door in dismissal. “I want to talk to McWhirter.”

  He sat down behind the big, mellow desk as the men filed out. McWhirter linked his hands behind his back and began to pace across the room with a precise, measured gait, brow wrinkled in concentration as he waited for Gabriel to speak. “Is this accurate and up to the minute?” Gabriel said, picking up a sheet of foolscap.

  “Aye. If it’s what I gave Crevier to type. We can run a quick check.” He halted and screwed up his eyes. “Hire of Lamelle organization in Lebanon, fifty-two thousand. Ditto for Pacco group in South of France. Retainer fees: Singerman in Amsterdam, De Groot in Cape Town, Mashari in Port Said, and Zweif in Haifa, four thousand five hundred each. Lapos Island take-over, twelve thousand.”

  Still with eyes closed, McWhirter tugged thoughtfully at his ear, then continued in the same rapid monotone.

  “Shipping and special equipment, sixty thousand seven hundred. Bribes, payments for information, and commission to sub-agents, eight thousand three-fifty. Internal salaries and overheads, fifteen thousand four hundred. Estimated future expenses, forty thousand.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at Gabriel. “All figures in sterling. Total of Ł258,450. Estimated gross revenue Ł10,000,000, less distribution costs of Ł2,000,000. Net profit of Ł7,741,550.”

  Gabriel put the sheet of figures down and nodded. “Have you worked out how to handle the receipts?”

  “The usual way. This is just bigger. You’ve fifteen legitimate companies operating in various fields an’ in different parts of the world. They’ll absorb the revenue between them. I’ve drafted out a skeleton arrangement involving purchase o’ shares through nominees, and certain take-over arrangements. It’s verra complex, but if ye’d like to see it ?”

  “No.” The colorless eyes rested on McWhirter. “I don’t imagine you’d do anything stupid.”

  McWhirter’s lean face lost a little of its color. “I’m no’ that kind o’ fool, Gabriel,” he said dourly.

  There was a thump on the door and it opened. Mrs. Fothergill came in, wiping her hands on a large, grubby handkerchief. There was a lazy repleteness in her heavy face.

  “Ah, dear lady!” McWhirter strode jerkily to greet her, glowing with admiration. “D’ye know I envy you, Mrs. Fothergill? Happy the lad or lass whose needs are simple.” He took her hand and patted it gently, hovering over it. “No lust for riches, eh? No romantic problems. Just a jug of wine, a book of muscle-building, and a wee killing now and then”

  “Knock it off, McWhirter,” Mrs. Fothergill said good-humoredly, pushing him away. “I wouldn’t mind a drink though, now you mention it.”

  A nod from Gabriel, and McWhirter poured an inch of whisky from the array of bottles on the side table.

  “Your health, dear Mrs. Fothergill,” he said, handing her the tumbler with a winning smile. “You won five pounds for me. I laid evens wi’ Borg that ye’d strangle yon feller, an’ Borg was sure ye’d do that wee neck-snapping trick, like wi’ the good abbot.”

  “I thought about it,” Mrs. Fothergill admitted. “But it’s all over a bit too quick that way.” She ruminated for a moment. “He was an abbot then, that other one?” She drank, ruminated again, then lifted the glass and drained it. “And you took five pounds off Borg for this one? I’ll have that off you at poker tomorrow, sonnyboy.”

  She looked across at Gabriel with something appallingly like a shy simper.

  “Thanks, Gabriel. I mean, you know, for the bit of fun.”

  “All right, Mrs. Fothergill. Send Mendoza in, will you?”

  She nodded, wiped her mouth on the handkerchief, stuffed it in her trouser pocket, and went out.

  Grinning, McWhirter started to speak. He saw Gabriel absorbed in the sheet of figures, and remained silent. Two minutes later a dark-faced man in shirt sleeves entered. Gabriel got u
p.

  “Run that last film again, Mendoza. The blow-lamp one. You haven’t seen that yet, McWhirter?”

  “Er … no. No, I’ve not. Kalonides only brought the print in tonight.”

  “All right. You can stay.” It was a favor.

  The lights went out and Mendoza set the projector going. McWhirter stiffened his jaws to hold back a yawn. Gabriel settled himself in the big wooden armchair. As the titles rolled his face came alive and he began to grin.

  5

  “It’s a classic example,” said Tarrant. “Our Right Honorable friend is doing the right thing for the wrong reason.” He hooked his heels over the rail of the high stool and watched Modesty Blaise pour boiling water over fresh-ground coffee in an earthenware jug.

  They had driven from Westminster direct to Modesty’s penthouse and were in the big kitchen, a place of ice-blue and white with the gleam of chrome. She made no answer to his comment. Tarrant noted with satisfaction that her thoughts were elsewhere and that there was a slight frown of annoyance between her eyes.

  “It may be his method, of course,” Tarrant went on. “If a thing works, he’s not called to account, and if it doesn’t work he can defend it on the wrong grounds and confuse the Opposition.”

  “You mentioned Willie Garvín earlier.” Modesty leaned back against a unit bearing shelves of spices, and lit a cigarette.

  “Yes.” Tarrant’s manner was amiably dismissive. “He’s a pleasant enough chap, of course. But basically he’s an uneducated criminal with a record as long as your arm.”

  She looked at him with hostile eyes. “Mine’s longer, except that it’s not on record. And Willie’s clean for the last seven years. What’s more, in the only way that matters to you he’s infinitely better educated than any man you care to name.”

  “I admit he has certain curious skills,” Tarrant conceded. “But this is surely a job calling for finesse.”