their backgrounds?"
"Liverpool underworld. They have both done time for robbery with violence and the like. Rather rough, I'm afraid."
"Exactly what I need," Barry told him. "Soon enough to see them tomorrow. And the equipment?"
"Two suitcases were delivered this morning very early." "Who by?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. A young man in a dark coat and hat. I've never seen him before." Barry smiled, and Salter said, "Your people seem remarkably efficient, Mr. Sinclair."
"And why wouldn't they be? Let's have a look at those suitcases."
Salter opened a cupboard at the side of the fireplace. The cases were well made in real leather, their catches held in place by tumbler locks, the combinations of which Barry had memorized from the list in his briefcase.
He quickly lined up the right sequence of numbers and opene d t he first case. It contained two Sterling submachine guns, two British army-issue Smith and Wesson revolvers, a Browning automatic, and several gas canisters. Salter's eyes opened wide. Barry closed the case, locked it, and opened the other, disclosing army camouflage uniforms, several dark blue berets, and webbing belts.
"Can I ask what all this is about, Mr. Sinclair?" Salter said nervously. "It all looks pretty heavy to me."
"That's what you're getting paid for," Barry told him. He locked the second case. "Now let's have that drink."
At that moment, there was a knock at the door, it opened and Jenny came in with a tray. "I told you not to disturb me," Salter said angrily.
"I thought you might like some tea, Mr. Salter, you and the gentleman."
She glanced at Barry, and in the light of the room and without the head scarf he saw now that she was at best plain, with high cheekbones, olive skin, and overfull lips.
"All right, girl, run along and get a meal ready for Mr. Sinclair."
She went out, and Frank Barry, ignoring the tea, went to the sideboard, and helped himself to the Scotch. "Is she all there?"
Salter poured himself a cup of tea. "Oh, yes, just a little slow, that's all. She used to live at the farm I mentioned, up the valley, with her father, a fine old drunk. He ran his car into a wall one night and killed himself. She would have been destitute if I hadn't taken her in and bought the place."
"A philanthropist," Barry said. "I could tell right away."
"But she never seems to come to life," Salter said. "Her flesh has--has a deadness to it. She never responds." It was as if he were talking to himself for a moment, and then he looked up. "You understand me?"
"Oh, yes," Barry said in disgust. "I think so."
Salter swallowed the rest of his tea hurriedly. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got a job to finish. A burial tomorrow afternoon, so it won't wait. Jenny will look after you."
He went out. Barry drank the rest of his Scotch. The room wa s v ery quiet except for the grandfather clock in the corner. There was an indefinable musty smell to everything, like an old room opened for the first time in many years. It went well with the overstuffed furniture and the nature of the establishment.
When he opened the door, he could smell cooking. He followed the smell along the passage to the old stone-flagged kitchen. The girl stood at the stove stirring something in a pan with a wooden spoon. She glanced over her shoulder.
"It's almost ready," she said in that dead voice as she put down the spoon and wiped her hands over her thighs. "I'm just going out to the shed for more wood for the stove."
She took a large red flashlight from under the sink and moved to the door. Barry was there before her and opened it. "I'll come with you. You could probably do with some help."
She looked up at him, uncertain, then handed him the light. "All right, it's across the yard."
It was treacherous underfoot and Barry picked his way carefully, cursing when he stepped into a puddle. When the girl opened the door of the barn, he saw several vehicles parked inside. A black hearse, a large black limousine, a van, and a
"Liverpool underworld. They have both done time for robbery with violence and the like. Rather rough, I'm afraid."
"Exactly what I need," Barry told him. "Soon enough to see them tomorrow. And the equipment?"
"Two suitcases were delivered this morning very early." "Who by?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. A young man in a dark coat and hat. I've never seen him before." Barry smiled, and Salter said, "Your people seem remarkably efficient, Mr. Sinclair."
"And why wouldn't they be? Let's have a look at those suitcases."
Salter opened a cupboard at the side of the fireplace. The cases were well made in real leather, their catches held in place by tumbler locks, the combinations of which Barry had memorized from the list in his briefcase.
He quickly lined up the right sequence of numbers and opene d t he first case. It contained two Sterling submachine guns, two British army-issue Smith and Wesson revolvers, a Browning automatic, and several gas canisters. Salter's eyes opened wide. Barry closed the case, locked it, and opened the other, disclosing army camouflage uniforms, several dark blue berets, and webbing belts.
"Can I ask what all this is about, Mr. Sinclair?" Salter said nervously. "It all looks pretty heavy to me."
"That's what you're getting paid for," Barry told him. He locked the second case. "Now let's have that drink."
At that moment, there was a knock at the door, it opened and Jenny came in with a tray. "I told you not to disturb me," Salter said angrily.
"I thought you might like some tea, Mr. Salter, you and the gentleman."
She glanced at Barry, and in the light of the room and without the head scarf he saw now that she was at best plain, with high cheekbones, olive skin, and overfull lips.
"All right, girl, run along and get a meal ready for Mr. Sinclair."
She went out, and Frank Barry, ignoring the tea, went to the sideboard, and helped himself to the Scotch. "Is she all there?"
Salter poured himself a cup of tea. "Oh, yes, just a little slow, that's all. She used to live at the farm I mentioned, up the valley, with her father, a fine old drunk. He ran his car into a wall one night and killed himself. She would have been destitute if I hadn't taken her in and bought the place."
"A philanthropist," Barry said. "I could tell right away."
"But she never seems to come to life," Salter said. "Her flesh has--has a deadness to it. She never responds." It was as if he were talking to himself for a moment, and then he looked up. "You understand me?"
"Oh, yes," Barry said in disgust. "I think so."
Salter swallowed the rest of his tea hurriedly. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got a job to finish. A burial tomorrow afternoon, so it won't wait. Jenny will look after you."
He went out. Barry drank the rest of his Scotch. The room wa s v ery quiet except for the grandfather clock in the corner. There was an indefinable musty smell to everything, like an old room opened for the first time in many years. It went well with the overstuffed furniture and the nature of the establishment.
When he opened the door, he could smell cooking. He followed the smell along the passage to the old stone-flagged kitchen. The girl stood at the stove stirring something in a pan with a wooden spoon. She glanced over her shoulder.
"It's almost ready," she said in that dead voice as she put down the spoon and wiped her hands over her thighs. "I'm just going out to the shed for more wood for the stove."
She took a large red flashlight from under the sink and moved to the door. Barry was there before her and opened it. "I'll come with you. You could probably do with some help."
She looked up at him, uncertain, then handed him the light. "All right, it's across the yard."
It was treacherous underfoot and Barry picked his way carefully, cursing when he stepped into a puddle. When the girl opened the door of the barn, he saw several vehicles parked inside. A black hearse, a large black limousine, a van, and a
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