Queen Victoria's Revenge by Harry Harrison Page B

fours. There was only silence from the harbor behind him and he risked a quick look over his shoulder. None of the Cubans were in sight—but the knife wielder from the boat was coming up the path behind him.
    There is nothing like a quick whiff of fear to flush out the adrenals and start the heart pumping. Tony whirred up the steep side of the hill, arms and legs churning like windmills, between the houses at the top toward the beckoning road beyond. A sturdy young man came out of one of the houses and looked at him with interest. Tony slowed to a walk and tried to think of something inconsequential to say. Before he could open his mouth his pursuer called out:
    â€œHold him, Bruce, he’s one of them from the plane.”
    Bruce’s reactions were not the quickest. He frowned in thought and Tony pushed by him, then reluctantly made his mind up at the last possible instant. A large hand reached out and seized Tony’s jacket and that was that. He struggled fiercely but to no avail, and was drawn in steadily like the Loch Fyne herring of the poem. His grinning pursuer came quickly up and the two of them had no trouble in forcing Tony through the door into the building. It closed behind him with a very final sound. They were in a large, beamed kitchen. A short man with sandy hair and steel-rimmed thick glasses looked up from the table where he was drinking a cup of tea. “What’s this?” he asked quietly.
    â€œThis one is from the plane, the American FBI man. He came to town with a whole shoal of those Cubans. One of them showed me a gun and I stuck him in the leg. Where’s Angus?”
    â€œIn the parlor with the fencing-cully. We can’t bother him now.”
    â€œWhat’s to do?”
    â€œDo nothing until we ask Angus. He won’t be long—”
    The sharp cracking sound of two pistol shots from behind the door came as punctuation to his sentence. Once more the knife thrower from the boat showed the speed of his reflexes for, as the others stood gaping, he jumped forward and hurled himself against the door. It creaked loudly—but held fast. As he struck it again a car started up in the road outside, tires spinning and squealing as it roared away. The door crashed open to reveal Angus Macpherson lying face down on the floor, beyond him the open front door.
    In this still moment Tony struggled to get free. But the stolid Bruce was the perfect captor. He had been ordered to hold, and hold he did, gaping into the parlor and scarcely aware of Tony’s writhing. They were bending over Angus now, looking up with shocked faces.
    â€œHe’s dead, stone dead, Willy. What are we going to do?”
    â€œDon’t panic,” the sandy-haired man said, stroking his heavy glasses in thought. “Close the street door. Get the others in here. The money’s gone, isn’t it?”
    â€œBy God yes! He’s killed poor Angus and taken it all.”
    Willy looked up and saw Tony, then pointed a quick finger in his direction. “Get that one out of here for now. Lock him in the pantry.”
    Muscled arms forced Tony across the room and through a low wooden door. It crashed shut behind him and he could hear a heavy bolt being slid into place. He was in a small room lined with shelves, mostly empty, and lit by a small barred window in the wall. The door was thick, he found that out when he pressed his ear to it; all he could hear was tantalizing murmurs of sound from the other room. All right, what about the window—if he was going to escape now was the time while the confusion was at its highest. When he stood on the shelves his shoulders were level with the window. It had no glass in it but was covered by a rusty piece of screen that came away when he touched it—to reveal heavy iron bars set in a solid metal frame. Now what? While he was considering that a man ran by outside shouting to someone unseen.
    â€œA green Capri, it was. Number 8463Y. Went by